Snapshot
by Writer of a Thousand Colors
Summary: Not everything has to be a fight and not everything in life has to be hard. Snapshots of moments they'll deny ever happened, with everything from love, to hatred, to grief. Because sometimes it's best to see what happens when no one else is looking.
1. Chapter 1

The sky was the color of steel, and it was raining. Flower heads bent under the force of the water pounding down on top them, grass flatted to the side, rivers swelled and overran the banks. Dried leaves, in faded shades of crimson and gold, cracked and molded inside of damp hollow logs.

Fall had come, and it was beautiful.

Matthew was cold, and soaking wet, long hair plastered to his cheeks, his dripping shirt hanging off of his body. His arms were raised up to the sky, palms up, head tilted back and eyes closed as cold water ran down his face and into the collar of his shirt.

Alfred and Arthur watched him from the warmth of the house, the fire crackling at their backs and spreading a warm circle of light out onto the carpet. Alfred's dog was curled up in his basket in the corner, nose tucked into tail. His chest rose and fell with his deep even breaths, eyes flickering beneath his eyelids.

The living room was neatly messy, the chaos there with a certain order to the way the blankets and pillows were tossed around willy-nilly. The windows were fogging up, and Alfred wiped them periodically with his shirtsleeve.

The clock struck four; Matthew had been out in the rain for over an hour.

"He'll get sick," Arthur muttered, never looking away from the figure outside. He swirled the brandy around in his cup before taking another sip. "He's crazy to just stand out there."

"Matty likes the rain," Alfred replied, getting up to add another log onto the fire. The flames crackled and popped, and the blonde smiled as he returned to his seat by the window. "Let him just enjoy it, Arthur."

"Hn. I didn't say I was going to go get him. I just said he'll get sick."

"He's already has a cold, and if it gets worse, he can just go to the hospital," Alfred reminded the other, and then they both fell back into silence. The dog huffed and shuffled around on his bed, groaning quietly.

"Francis is coming over later, yes?" Arthur asked after a few more minutes of silence. Alfred shrugged, leaning back against the wall, and said nothing. Silence returned, and broke another minuet later when the front door clicked open and a dripping Matthew stepped inside.

He smiled at the two on the couch as he pulled off his soaking sweatshirt and left it in a heap on the tiled floor, followed by his socks and shoes. Matthew shook his head briefly, sending a spray of water across the room. Alfred's dog raised his head as some of the water hit his head and wagged his tail upon seeing Matthew. He didn't stand, though – he was an old dog, and his joints were tired.

"Go shower, Matty," Alfred commanded, pointing down the hall to Matthew's right. "Your cold's just going to get worse at this rate."

"I know." Matthew's voice was breathy and harsh from a long week of coughing and swallowing painkillers. He turned on his heel and walked away from Arthur and Alfred, vanishing to the right a moment later.

"Sometimes I wonder about him," Arthur murmured into his brandy. The liquid burned his throat as he took another deep gulp.

Alfred snorted. "Sometimes I wonder about _you,_ Arthur." He snuggled back into the couch and shut his eyes. "Mm...I don't want to stand up."

"Too bad, you're still cooking. Unless you'd rather I did...?" Arthur smiled as Alfred's eyes shot open again and the younger scrambled to his feet, ignoring the flicker of annoyance that even now, no one considers his cooking edible.

"I'll go get started now, then," Alfred called over his shoulder as he hurried out of the room and went into the cold and dark kitchen. Arthur laughed softly and set his cup down on the coffee table. Grabbing a blanket and his book, he leaned against the armrest and flipped his book open, losing himself into the world of Harry Potter as Alfred fired up the oven and flipped on light switches and Matthew washed the cold off of him.

_Not everything has to be a fight, _he reminds himself as he turns a page, _and not every thing in life has to be hard. _

Later, he'd wonder about that thought when Francis was there and groping Matthew again, and Matthew was blushing while coughing up what sounded like a lung, and Alfred was trying to get Francis off his twin with the use of a frying pan and Alfred's dog had stolen their steak and Arthur had yelled himself hoarse trying to get them to shut up, but for right now there was peace and quiet and life was okay.

_Not everything has to end in tragedy. _

----

**Author's Note**

**it's raining outside, and I'm really cold, and I didn't want to work on the Log story, so you get this piece of plotless shit. Enjoy.  
**


	2. England's House

His house is far too big, and far too old. Rich carpeting has turned threadbare and litters the stone hallways. Paintings from artists long dead hang in the drafty halls, eyes painted in some distant time following his back every time he passes them. Windows, high and gilded with no other purpose than to impress let in watery sunlight rarely; more often then not, the only thing he sees outside is rain and stormy gray clouds hiding the sun.

England sighs and leans again the uncomfortably hard arm of a stuffy chair, resting his cheek on his fisted hand. A clock ticks somewhere in the house; from what room, he doesn't know. These rooms echo everything that is said within them, making the house seem even larger then it is.

He is bored. It is raining outside, but it rains here so often he doesn't even bother thinking about it. The rain drums on the roof, never ceasing, never pausing, and he growls deep in the back of his throat. Always raining, always the same, for hundreds on hundreds of years.

Maybe America is right and he is an old fart.

He snorts, and pushes that thought away as he gets to his feet, cracking his neck. He refuses to agree with America on that one. It'll only go to that git's head, and it's already so big it can't fit through doors any more.

He paces the room, hands clasped behind his back as he tries to think of something, anything to do. His country is fairly peaceful right now; his current boss is doing an excellent job. None of the other countries are causing too much trouble, except for America, but that is hardly anything new, nothing worth noticing any more. America was always the troublemaker.

England stops in front of one of the large, elegant windows and glances out. The country is awash in gray and rain, stormy clouds hovering overhead and pouring everything they have out. The hills are so green it makes England's head hurt to look at them.

His lips purse. There is nothing new. But why would there be? His country is sometimes rather boring, unchanging. Or maybe it just seems that way to him; to others around the globe, it's an exciting place full of history and magic.

He snorts again. He's seen his country's history, and there was nothing magical about it. War, hatred, his endless rivalry with France, loosing America to his own arrogance and ideas, fighting in those two goddammed awful wars that damaged him so much, hurt him beyond pain and agony...his history is nothing worth bragging about.

England's lips quirk in a small smile as he turns away from the window, eyes wandering around his stuffy sitting room, with it's elegant furniture and beautiful, if old and dusty, paintings with people whose eyes follow every move he makes.

His thoughts are broken by a loud rap-rap-rap on the front door, so loud that it echoes around the room, even though the entry hall is halfway across the house. England's eyebrows raise. He isn't expecting any visitors today.

But he leaves his sitting room and marches through the drafty hallways with their former rich carpeting and beautiful, old and dusty paintings with people whose eyes follow every move he makes. The door is grand and much taller than England himself is, something all his visitors comment on with laughter dancing in their eyes, because they know England will catch the joke they hide behind quiet wonderment.

The door slides open with barely a squeak on well-oiled hinges, although it is still heavy enough he has to push on it, and England pokes his messy head out into the rainy, watery sunlight. "Yes?"

"Heya, England!" The voice is warm, deep and pleasant, and England rolls his eyes as he forces the door to open a few inches more, gray light spilling across the stone of the hallway inside.

"America. You should have called me," he says flatly, giving his former colony a stern look through forest-green eyes.

America's sharp azure eyes are dancing in the bad lighting, hands planted on his hips and a grin plastered on his face that England wishes he could just slap off. "It's not just me here," he replies cheerfully, flicking ash-blonde hair out of his tanned face.

"Who else is there?"

"Nihao, England, aru!" a voice calls, and China's head pokes out from behind America's back, eyes smiling and black hair falling out from his usual ponytail. China's clothes are damp from the rain, but the silk still shimmers with hidden designs.

"Konnichiwa, England-san," Japan joins in, his hand waving over America's shoulder, thin and as delicate as a woman's.

"Hola!" Spain yells, somewhere in the back, his tone as bright as ever.

"Ciao," another voice grumbles, and England decides from the irritated tone, it must be the older Italian brother, Romano.

England blinks at the crowd of people in front of him. "Why are you all here?" he asks suspiciously, tilting his head to the side.

"We were all bored, aru!" China replies, grinning. "Can we come inside, aru? I'm getting soaked through, aru!"

"Oh," England blinks, "Um. Yes. Please, do come in." He stands off to the side as he guests tramp by him, dripping water all over his spotless floor and soaking the carpet. China's dripping with water, Spain laughing as he pulls his coat from over Romano's head. Romano is as dry as bone, while Spain drips. Japan folds up his umbrella as he enters, placing it neatly in the umbrella stand that stands to the left of the door. America shakes his head like a dog, water droplets flying everywhere before flipping his hair back, making it stand up in points that make a snort escape from England before he can stop it.

"How've you been?" America asks with a smile, holding a hand out to England. Hesitantly, England takes it, only to yelp as America pulls him forward into a tight hug, so tight he can feel his ribs crack, but he should have expected this. He smiles faintly as he shoves back on America, trying to release himself.

"I'll be fine once I can breathe," he gasps out, and America lets out a short bark of laughter, squeezes tightly once more, then lets go so abruptly that England stumbles forward, head hitting America's chest. China giggles and slaps England on the back from behind, Japan's quiet chuckles drowned out by Spain's laughter.

"Let's do something!" America proclaims, shoving England off him and causing him to stumble backwards until Japan steadies him.

"What are you planning on?" England asks warily, pressing a hand to his head and eying America through his fingers.

"Video games!" America replies so cheerfully it makes England's head spin as America pulls out a case titled TWILIGHT PRINCESS out from his coat, and another, this one ROCK BAND 2 from his baggy jeans pocket. Japan holds out a Mario racing game and a box with a Wii consul inside, smiling slightly as he hands them to America.

England groans. "No. I refuse."

"Oh, come on, you boring old fart," Spain cuts in, grinning so widely England's cheeks ache in sympathy, "They're fun!"

"You're just as old as me!" England snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. China giggles again as America rolls his eyes.

"Come, come play England, aru! Japan has been making some really good games lately!" China finally forces out through his giggles. Japan flushes a pale pink and slaps China on the head with a loud thwack, although it does no good. China just laughs harder.

"Please, England?" Spain asks, making his eyes as wide as possible. Romano huffs from behind him, sounding irritated.

"Come on, England!" America joins in in a whine, smiling that smile that makes England's heart skip a beat. England bites his lip and looks at the ground, knowing he will regret this later, even before the words are out of his mouth.

"Alright...fine. I'll play."

Everyone there cheers so loud that England winces as the sound echoes around the huge front hall, making it seem like there are more people there then there is. Then America's grabbed his arm and he's being dragged off as the group searches for his TV set.

England smiles very slightly.

Maybe things aren't always boring.

---

**Author's Note**

**I actually wrote this a long time ago; I just never got around to posting it here on  
**


	3. Red Thread

He remembered reading a legend, a long time ago, in the book of Japanese fairytales Japan had loaned to him. A legend about a red thread, tied to one's left pinky. A thread as red as the rising sun, that never broke, never snapped, but reached off and off into the distance, where it would connect to the one meant for you. Someday, that crimson red thread would lead to the one you were destined for.

He scoffed, slamming the book shut as he got to his feet. He was an old country, so old that he couldn't remember a time when he wasn't a nation. What was he doing reading a child's story; a story only those weak of mind could believe. A thread that never broke, leading to someone who would always love you, no matter what.

A child's story, he reminded himself as he slipped silently through the hallways towards the meeting with his boss. A child's story, nothing more. Happy endings, after all, never happened in real life, and there was no such thing as true love.

He was sure of it.

----

He remembered reading a legend, a fairytale of sorts, in a book of Japanese fairytales Japan had given him for his birthday. He'd flipped through the book during a day's _siesta_, admiring the beautiful pictures and reading the stories as he sipped a cup of hot chocolate.

One story had caught his eye, and he set down his mug of chocolate, bending over the book, nose nearly touching the page as he read, slowly at first, then faster.

A story about a red thread, as crimson as lifeblood, as strong as a heartbeat, made to last as long as time itself. A thread that bound two souls together for eternity, a thread that showed who you were meant for, who would make you real, a thread that tied itself around your left pinky and the pinky of your soulmate.

He sat back, the storybook still open on his lap, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling overhead, hand resting on his forehead. "It's not a fairytale, Japan," he whispered, his voice breathy, unsure, shaky. Not his voice, not at all. "How did your people know...about it?"

He raised his left hand in front of his face, staring blankly at the red thread that wrapped itself around his little finger. It was wavering, transparent, fading in and out of view, but it was there, like it had been. A thread that hadn't vanished, even with the Holy Roman Empire's disappearance. "Who do you connect me to?" he murmured. "Now that the Holy Roman Empire is gone, who am I meant for?"

The thread answered no questions, and wavered out of existence again. But he knew he would see it later; because it always appeared later. Always.

----

Something was off, Japan noted, watching Italy with one eye as he sipped his tea – black, a bit of sugar for minimal sweetness, served in the traditional Japanese mug. The smile Italy was beaming wasn't as bright as the smiles Japan was used to seeing, the brown eyes not sparkling the way they usually did. He sipped his tea, slowly, savoring the bittersweet taste as it slid down his throat, one eye on his friend.

The Italian sat across from him, one hand curled loosely around his own mug, staring blankly at the drink's surface. His eyes were tired, contemplating, thinking. Brooding, Japan decided. Italy was brooding.

"Is something wrong?" he asked quietly, setting his mug down with the softest "click". Italy glanced up, lips lifting in a wide smile, eyes sliding shut.

"_Ve_? Something wrong? No, no!" The words were loud, cheerful, happy; the way he always spoke. But something was still off, Japan knew it. Something about his movements, the way his eyes darted down to his left hand then back up to the Asian's face, a sad glint hidden in the back of his eyes.

"I don't believe that," Japan replied. "Would you tell me what is bothering you?"

Italy's smile wavered, then he waved his hand in front of his face, chuckling quietly. "Nothing, I promise..." His words trailed off, then his smile returned, a little sadder. "Well...actually...that book of fairytales you gave me..."

He paused, and looked away, hair hiding his face from Japan, before he said softly, "That one story about the red thread-" he sucked in a deep breath- "Just reminded me of something, is all."

Japan raised an eyebrow as he picked up his mug once more. "The red thread?" he whispered, lips against the rim of the mug, "Not a story at all. It's very real."

Italy smiled again, as sad as before. "I know that. I've seen my thread." Japan inclined his head; he was guessing as much. The Italian bit his lip, and looked down to the surface of his tea. The drink was cooling; steam no longer rose from it, yet Japan thought it would be rude to comment on it as the Italian murmured, "I don't know who it could connect to, though. The one I was originally connected to vanished years ago."

"Are you sure of that?"

A bitterness touched the Italian's smile. "Yes."

"You know, sometimes people don't always vanish. And our threads don't always connect to those we expect them to. Mine didn't, for example."

"Who's on the end of your thread then?"

Japan's lips curled into a small smile, hidden by the mug stilled raised in front of his face. Did the Italian really think he'd say? Japan was not known for spilling his secrets; especially not one as important to him as this one. "That is for me to know, and maybe one day you'll find out. But not until then."

Italy didn't reply; picking up his mug and draining all of the tea in one breath. Japan watched him with the same small half-smile as he followed the Italian's example and drained his mug.

----

It had appeared again. Italy twisted his left hand this way and that, watching the thread curl around and around his fingers. The crimson was a shock against his coffee colored skin; as bright as the red on his country's flag. His right hand draped over the back of his couch, clinging to the edge of a book of art he had been flipping through before noticing the thread. His feet where up on his coffee table, next to the glass of iced water he'd set down on a coaster.

His lips pursed, almost thoughtfully, as he continued to study the thread. The sun caught on the twisted fibers, bringing out the pure beauty and brightness of it. The bow was gracefully, loopy, like a bow on a present.

He knew he was being stupid, sitting in his living room and admiring a thread that no one else could see. He knew it was silly to worry about who it could connect to, to wonder if he'd find that person. Like Japan said, everything was up to fate, although he had used some more fancy Japanese word to describe it.

His lips quirked up in a smile as he dropped his left hand, leaning his head against the back of the couch. The book of art slide from between his limp fingers to land on the ground with a soft thump, opening to the middle.

He was silent for several moments, eyes sliding shut. His brother was at Spain's house, Germany would be over later in the day, and for once, the house was quiet, still, peaceful.

The peaceful air was broken when the thread on his left pinky tightened suddenly, biting into his soft skin. He yelped in shock, bolting upright as a knock rapped on his front door.

"It's open!" he called as he rubbed his left hand, trying to ignore the ring of pain flooding his arm. The thread tugged again as the door opened, and Italy winced.

"Are you alright?" Germany's voice held what Italy would have called concern in anyone else's voice, but Germany made the words a little harsher.

"_Ve_, my hand just hurts."

Germany sighed, rubbing his temples with a hand. The sunlight caught on his hair, making it look like spun gold as Germany kneeled in front of him and held out a hand, commanding, "Let me see it, then. Where does it hurt?"

Italy didn't answer, eyes fixed on the blonde's left pinky, mouth hanging open. Wrapped around one of the blonde's fingers, thick and covered in old scars, was a crimson thread, as red as the dying sun, spilled blood, a beating heart.

Italy raised his eyes from Germany's hand to his face, taking in every feature he had never studied, only glanced at, before. Blue eyes, narrowed in confusion, thin lips pursed, eyebrows drawn down into diagonal slashes. "I don't believe it," the Italian whispered, the words coming out as a breath.

"Don't believe what?" Germany asked, taking Italy's left hand in his own. The thread shortened, tightened, tying their hands together.

Instead of answering, Italy buried his face in the blonde's shoulders, tears blurring his vision and turning the whole room into colorful smudges. Hot and salty tears soaked Germany's jacket as Italy sobbed, right hand clutching the front of the uniformed jacket, the other still in the German's grasp.

Germany frozen, eyes widening in surprise as the brunette's tears soaked his clothes. Then his face relaxed into a small smile, and he wrapped his right arm around the shaking Italian's shoulders and buried his nose in his friend's hair.

Their left hands stayed interlocked, the crimson thread looping in between their fingers, determined to tie them together for all of time.

----

**Author's Note:**

**I can't believe I wrote something so incredibly...sappy, cheesy, romantic...Just. Ew. I'm going to go write for of the Log. Or gag myself. But the Log's more productive.  
**


	4. World War Two

Cold.

Icy.

Freezing.

Frozen.

So many words he could use to describe what he was feeling. His lungs were frozen, so cold that his throat burned. His heart was shattered so beyond broken that he could feel the glass-sharp pieces digging into his chest cavity. Mouth speaking words of an anger he didn't feel; another lie to add to his list.

Anger directed at someone he swore he would never raise his hand against, someone he doesn't want to hurt, even if his boss says he must, even if those he is allied with have no hesitation about hurting him.

He knows the air around him isn't freezing cold. It's so warm that most of the allies have abandoned their long sleeves and pants, so hot that the old AC sputters as it tries to provide some relief. He knows no blood is trickling from the area where his broken heart lies.

How strange it was, China thought, that frozen lungs could breathe warm air without cracking.

How strange it was that a shattered heart could keep beating, steady, steady, so steady.

How strange it was that it was so easy to feign hatred for someone he swore to protect, someone he still swears to protect.

But then again, nothing concerning Japan ever made much sense for China.

----

Hot.

Disgusting.

Ruining.

Ruined.

Bloody hands, bloody uniforms, faces turned old before their time splattered with blood, grief, anger. Hatred. A thick overlying scent of iron, a scent he's never going to loose the memory of, something that makes him gag and strengthens his resolve at the same time.

Blood soaked fields, blood painted sky, a crimson sun setting to the west. The west, he thinks. The west is where the one he wishes he could protect lives. He is where the sun rises, the other where the sun falls. Places they are bound to, places bound to hatred for the other, although they are so similar.

He smiles bitterly as he picks his way across the field to his comrades, his allies. One tall, the other shorter, both still taller then he is. One silly in a way he never was, even as a child. One serious in a way he can relate to with far too much ease.

Both out to destroy those he values most, and the allies of that person.

How strange it was, Japan thought, that lungs filled with burning air didn't burst from the heat.

How strange it was that a heart could ache until it broke, yet still pumped blood through his body.

How strange it was that it was so easy to destroy his mentor, teacher, brother, his everything even though his heart screamed for him to stop.

But then again, nothing concerning China ever made much sense for Japan.

----

Bombings tearing lands apart. Houses burning, people mourning, tears a common sight. Hatred, anger, fear all too common of emotions, surrounded by them, awashed in them, people live on with their grief and sorrow.

China feigns hatred and rage, even as his heart breaks further.

Japan destroys everything he can, even as he wishes it wasn't like this.

The allies and axis powers fight on, oblivious and yet noticing China's sadness, depression, anger, fear, hope -so many words, so many that it makes him laugh through his tears- noticing and yet not seeing Japan's unwillingness to admit he is anything less then fine after a battle, after a clash of weapons and anger – so much anger, so much that it makes him laugh through his tears.

War ruins even the best of us.

Anger destroys us.

Fear stomps on our remains.

And hope watches silently.

----

China was human; he admitted it. It didn't matter how long he'd lived, how long he would live, what he'd seen, what he'd done. Didn't matter he was a country, had been alive for thousands upon thousands of years.

A human heart beat in his human chest, a human heart racing with human fear, human longing. A human face flushed by human anger, human tear tracks drying on his human cheeks. Human hands clutching a human gun, aiming it at the one his human heart beats for.

Japan looks stunned, angry, scared. Human emotions for a human face, someone that China never wants to injure. Someone he loves, promised to protect so long ago the memory is blurred at the edges, like an old photograph.

China screams, and drops the gun. Human fear, shock, shame overwhelms him, but he can't shoot. Not now. Not him. Not Japan.

He runs, and doesn't look back.

----

Buildings reduced to rubbish. Trees fried to nothingness. People annihilated where they stood, their footprints a stark white against the pavement. Where they last stood, never to move again, to be gone forever.

Japan is damaged.

Maybe dying, because China remembers that look of absolute horror on his face the moment Japan's side bursts open, and oh dear lord the blood and anger and Japan's paling face and the fear that shot through China like a bullet that it could happen; he could loose Japan-

Japan gives in.

- he's so relieved when he hears those words, even though he shouldn't be, even though Japan lost and is disgraced and ruined and broken and so goddammed broken and not Japan-

Japan surrenders the war.

-he's so happy, even though his happiness came at such a heavy cost, but for right now the others can focus on defeating Germany's boss and Italy's boss because it doesn't matter about them, he has to help Japan, no matter what his boss says-

Japan is defeated.

World War Two has ended.

-and China is so, so grateful as his frozen lungs warm and his shattered heart begins to fix itself, even though this is far from over. Japan's eyes are still cold, and his words still angry, but China hopes time will heal that.

Hope has returned to him now, and it has never tasted sweeter.

----

**Author's Note:**

**Sorry if you dislike this pairing...I just wanted to write it. It was late, and I was really, really bored...so...hope ya all like it somewhat.  
**


	5. Prussian Courting Rituals

"Hey, Mattie..." Gilbert drawled demandingly, sprawling across Matthew's chocolate brown leather sofa, staring unabashedly at his friend, "Come here a second."

He wiggled his finger in Matt's general direction as the Canadian pushed his vacuum cleaner across his living room floor. Matthew's blonde hair was tied up into a ponytail at the base of his neck, the sleeves of his red sweatshirt rolled back to his elbows. Sweat dribbled in a thin line down his forehead to the curve of his jaw.

Gilbert was lounging on Matt's sofa, watching with a sort of detached interest as his friend – was that the word Matthew was looking for? Could what he and Gilbert have be consider friendship? – went about his chores.

Now, however, he was waving in Matt's direction, a grin that could only be described as malicious on his pale face. Warily, Matt turned off the vacuum and and turned to face the albino, hands on his hips. "What do you want _now_, Gilbert? I'm not going to cook pancakes now – it's five in the afternoon; you can't eat those things for every -"

"That's not what I was going to ask for," Gilbert interrupted, smirking lazily as one foot rose up in the air behind his head. "Now get your scrawny butt _over_ here, Mattie, before I _make_ you."

"My butt is not scrawny, eh," Matt protested as he neared the sofa, arms moving to fold over his chest. Gilbert shifted a little to the left and placed one hand under his chest, on the sofa arm, looking up at Matt's face with a warped kind of determination. Matt tilted his head, sending the other Nation a confused look as Gilbert prepared himself to attack. "Hey, what do you think you're-"

Matt's question was cut short as Gilbert suddenly lunged up, and something slick and warm brushed against his forehead. Matt froze, brain processing what had just happened, as his hand slowly traveled upwards. Gilbert settled back down on the sofa with a lazy, triumphant grin adorning his face. Moments ticked by, and Matt's voice finally returned, as hoarse and throaty as it was.

"Did you just _lick_ my _eyebrow_, Gilbert?" he squeaked out, one hand clamping over the now-wet area. His cheeks were starting to burn crimson red. "Oh, that's gross," he complained, shuddering briefly as Gilbert let out a short bark of laughter. "I'm going to have to sanitize my whole face now, eh! What did you do that for?!"

"I felt like it," Gilbert replied easily, setting back down into the couch and propping his chin up on his hands. The lazy smirk still hadn't left his smug little face, Matt noticed irritably. But then again, Gilbert wasn't the one who had just had his eyebrow spontaneously licked.

Matt sent Gilbert another withering glare through his fingers, before spinning on his heel and stomping away in the direction of the bathroom. Gilbert watched him go for a moment, then hauled himself to his feet with a heavy sigh, trotting after his friend.

Matt was scrubbing at his face with a washcloth when Gilbert appeared in the bathroom's doorway. The Canadian stopped his incessant scrubbing long enough to say, "I am _diseased_ now," before the washcloth returned, moving even more briskly than before. Gilbert could almost hear the skin cells being peeled off, one at a time.

Gilbert watched in amusement as his friend lathered up with washcloth with even more soap. Matt's face was already fiery red from the constant scrubbing, his damp bangs plastered to his shining forehead. "You know, I don't have rabies. I'm too awesome for that," Gilbert commented lackadaisically as he leaned against the door frame.

Matt's voice was muffled by the washcloth when he spoke. "What, was licking someone's eyebrow some weird courting ritual in Prussia or something? You express your affections by licking their forehead?"

"Actually, no," Gilbert said cheerfully, "Everyone just dry-humped each other in the street. Saved a whole lotta time."

Matt choked as he inhaled the corner edge of the washcloth and quite a bit of soap. Gilbert raised an eyebrow in amusement and partly out of confusion when Matt bent double, foaming at the mouth as he coughed.

"Maybe I don't have rabies, but you certainly look like you do," he informed Matt as the Canadian stood again, heavily flushed and breathing erratic. Matt scowled at him as he brushed his sopping wet bangs away from his crimson face.

"I can never tell if you're joking or not," Matt replied as he squeezed by Gilbert, heading back out into the living room. Gilbert trailed after him like a lost puppy. "Were you joking?" Matt added on, twisting his neck to look at Gilbert as they walked into the kitchen.

Gilbert shrugged, hands in his pockets as he leaned against the counter. "About the dry humping?" He grinned, showing his canine teeth. "Mostly."

Matt had been opening the cupboards, trying to find things to start making dinner with, but at Gilbert's words, he let out a tiny shriek of surprise and dropped a box of flour on the floor. It burst on impact, covering Matt with the fine, flaky white powder. Gilbert began to cackle, arms wrapped around his waist as he bent double.

"It's not funny!" Matt shrieked, failing his arms around and sending up a cloud of flour into the air. He couldn't see through his glasses – flour covered them like winter frost. "Dah! Quit doing that, Gilbert, eh!"

"I didn't do anything," Gilbert managed to force out in-between giggles, "You just overreact to everything I say." He tilted his face up, and smiled winningly at Matt, who faltered for just one moment, caught off-guard by how unexpectedly beautiful Gilbert looked when he was smiling from something other than having his ego blown up even more so or than by carrying out a successful trick.

But looking beautiful wasn't going to be enough to save Gilbert _now_. His face split by an uncharacteristically evil grin, Matt picked up his last remaining bag of flour – making a mental note to remember to run out and buy some more – and carefully took aim, and fired.

The bag flew perfectly through the air, flour falling out like flakes of snow in it's flight. Gilbert was too busy laughing to notice, still wearing that absurdly beautiful smile he wore before, and therefore did not see the flying flour bag until it had landed on his head, exploding on impact and making the albino – who was already as white as a sheet – paler than ever before.

It was Matt's turn to laugh now, and laugh he did, collapsing to the floor as his body shook. Gilbert was incredulous, his face fixed in an expression of denial and disbelief as the flour settled onto his muscular frame.

"You are _so_ going to get it now, blondie," he growled, before leaping in Matt's direction and commencing to tickle the Canadian mercilessly. Matt's breathing was coming in short puffs, head spinning from the lack of oxygen.

_This makes up for not being noticed by the other Nations,_ Matt decided as Gilbert grabbed Matt's ankles and dragged him back to the living room, where he dumped the smaller Nation onto the sofa and began to cover him with blankets and pillows, fighting to make sure none of Matt was showing. Both were laughing as Matt fought to return to the world of light as Gilbert stuffed another blanket around him.

_Even though the others can't see me,_ Matt thought,_ even though Gilbert isn't a Nation any more, it doesn't matter._

_Because we will still have __**this**__, no matter what._

_----_

**Author's Note**

**There's actually a story behind the eyebrow licking, actually. Usagi, Tsubaki and I once engaged in an hour-and-a-half long eyebrow licking contest And see, my family has Prussian blood, somebody from Tsubaki's family came from Canada, so I just switched characters and got rid of Usagi (She'd be Germany. Hm, threesome maybe? *is shot*)**

Yeah...but I guess I reversed roles as well, since I never ended up licking Tsubaki's eyebrow - she got _mine_ actually. (And it was disgusting)

Yes. Eyebrow licking is so totally romantic. Instead of asking someone out, just lick their eyebrow and they will fall for you completely, 333 *is brick'd*


	6. Three Steps Backwards

"You know, he was always an ungrateful brat." France's voice was shallow, quiet, empty. He was stating a fact, a simple truth of life. "He never did like your cooking, did he? And he never cared how much time you spent trying to educate him on the ways of the world. You should be happy he left you, England."

England meant his glare to be harsh, but his head ached and there were three or four Frances sitting in front of him, giving him that strange, thoughtfully sad look, and he couldn't decide which was the real one so he could know who to scowl at. "Like you would know." His words slurred. France tilted his head to the right and raised one slender eyebrow, his expression patronizing and patient.

England sneered at him. "You didn't feed him. You didn't dress him. You didn't make him birthday presents, or watch him open them. You weren't there..." he trailed off, and let his head loll to the side, and hummed a vague tune to himself. France waited silently.

Finally England remembered that he had been talking, and he shook his head and blinked blearily, peering at France. There were three of him now, waving in and out of view.

"You missed so much," England muttered, rubbing one hand through his choppy blonde hair. His other hand reached for the bottle of rum set on top of the stack of leather-bound books next to his chair. "You missed everything. You did nothing for him, except help him break away from me." The bottle paused as it brushed his lips. "Did you like doing it?"

"Doing what?" There it was, that patronizing sneer, that calmness that wasn't really France. England hated it, and he hated how much more idiotic France was being.

"Watching me break." England's hands were shaking again as he tilted the bottle back and gulped. The alcohol burned his throat, and a moment passed before he could speak, voice raspy. "Watching me wonder what I did wrong."

"I can't really say I did." The words were so quiet that England missed them entirely.

"I bet you did," England said. There was a sad, hard smile on his face, with no light to his eyes. He nearly dropped the rum bottle as he leaned forward, resting it on his knee. "I bet you found it amusing – England, the pirate, the conquer, the ruler..." his smirk was harsh and cold, "Lying on the floor, sobbing his eyes out 'cause a blue-eyed brat broke his heart."

"It wasn't all that funny." France looked to the side and rested his hand on his fist, placing his elbow in the arm of his chair. "It wasn't the first time I've seen you break, but I think you shattered the most time. I was almost afraid you'd kill yourself out of grief." A heartbeat of silence. "I don't know what I'd do if you died."

"Laugh, most likely," England muttered darkly, leaning back in his seat and taking another swig of his rum.

France smiled bleakly as he continued to stare blankly at the painting of Queen Elizabeth hanging on the wall. "No, I don't think so. I've known you my entire life, England. I can't think of a time when you weren't there."

He tilted his head and eyed England through a curtain of golden hair. England narrowed his eyes at him over the edge of his bottle of rum. France's smile grew sadder, and he straightened up in his seat, lacing his fingers together and resting them on his knees.

"I remember when all you were was a bunch of barbarian tribes trying to survive," he remarked easily, keeping his gaze trained on England. "And when you started to become a monarchy. I remember when you got Elizabeth as your queen and how much you loved her. I remember when Jack the Ripper hunted your people. I remember when we fought for America and when I gave Canada to you."

"Where are you getting with this, you frog?" England asked bitterly. "We've had a long and bloody history together, France. It doesn't matter how much you know about me; we always have been and always will be rivals."

_And that's what it all comes down to,_ France mused sadly as England poured the last drop of rum down his throat and then heaved himself to his feet to go off in search of another bottle. _It all comes down to the fact that you can't see what I've tried to do for you, mainly because everything I tried failed._

There was a sudden roar of deafening thunder shaking the house and a flash of blinding lighting dancing across the parlor floor before fading. England jumped at the sudden noise, dropping his new bottle of rum as he swore. The bottle burst as it hit against the bust of Queen Victoria England had shoved into the corner. The air reeked of alcohol.

France turned his head away and exhaled heavily. His blue eyes drifted close. "You should be used to the thunder and lighting. You're this country itself, aren't you? It always rains here." His tone was sad, tired.

"Shut up, you twit," England snapped, rubbing at the bust with the corner edge of his overcoat. "I wasn't expecting that as much as you were."

A long, strained moment of silence passed, in which England rubbed furiously at the statue, but finally his movements slowed, and he sat back on his heels, staring blankly at the statue. "It reminds me of that day every time it rains," he whispered. France nearly missed the words, England's voice was so soft and quiet, but of course he heard them anyway.

"So in essence, almost everything reminds you of him now?" he asked dryly, running a hand through his long silky hair. England turned his head and gave him a fierce scowl, venom green eyes bright and irritated.

"I can't even go up into the top floor of my house because of all the memories that are lying in wait for me," he said coldly. His eyes were hard, unforgiving. "I can't go into my yard because I remember all the days he spent in there. I can't go down into the basement, were he stored all these little things he thought I never knew about. He's everywhere, France, and I can't escape him."

France silently got to his feet, rubbing his neck. "Ah, would you look at the time. I must be getting home." He gestured vaguely at the clock hanging above the fireplace as he headed towards the door. "Anyway, I hope you've sobered up in time for the meeting tomorrow," he called over his shoulder as he pulled open the heavy oak door. "I wouldn't do for prim England to fall asleep in the middle of a debate."

"Go die, you frog." England's voice was thick. France couldn't see his face, but he knew by the tiny shivering in his shoulders that England was trying not to cry. Where was that pirate he once knew? That confident, vibrant England, who answered to no master? Where was that Druid he could still remember? Sure in his beliefs and his people?

_Everything has to change some time_, he reminded himself as he shrugged into his coat, placing his hat over his smooth hair and grabbing his aging umbrella. _Change is a constant. Change is what turned England from a Druid, to a pirate, to a gentleman. Change is what turned me from hating him to something more. Change is what made America stop being a little boy, and grow __up into someone that would break England's heart._

The streets were nearly dark when he stepped out of England's house, black broken only by the pools of light underneath the weary lampposts. It had stopped thundering, but the rain continued to pour down, slapping the pavement with a dreary rhythm. The sidewalk was gray from water, and few lights shone out from the houses lining the streets.

God, but France had always hated London. It might have been beautiful – in some ways, it certainly was – but the rain and clouds and just the general feel of the city depressed France. His lips twisted into a tiny frown as he set off down the street. He'd made the mistake of taking a taxi here, and he didn't have his cell phone and his hotel was nearly a mile away.

It took him twenty minutes to reach the place where he was staying, and he was only slightly surprised to see America leaning on the side of the hotel, smoking a cigarette and looking skywards, watching the rain pour down. His golden hair was plastered to his forehead, glasses streaked with water.

He stopped ten feet away from him, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat so America couldn't see his white-knuckled fists. The rain continued to fall, breaking the silence as France stared at America and America stared at the sky.

"...I take it that the geezer's still sulking," America finally said, bringing his cigarette to his lips and inhaling deeply. France wrinkled his nose. The harsh, smoky, tobacco-and-chemical smell was disgusting.

"I still think you don't deserve his love," France replied. His hair was sticking to the back of his neck. "You broke him in ways he didn't need to be broken."

America chortled, breathing out a plume of smoke. It spiraled off into the darkness. "And what, you deserve him more than I do? You fought with him for thousands of years. You insulted him every chance you had. What makes you think you can have him?"

"Because you don't want him." France's voice was empty, hollow, just like his eyes. "Because you don't care for him the way I do."

America tilted his head and grinned briefly, cigarette barely an inch away from his lips. France wanted to hit him so badly. "Aw, but you see, you'd only break his heart too if he let you in like he did me," America remarked, still smiling that empty smile. "You're just like that, France. You wouldn't be able to help it, and you'd leave him as broken as I did. And then where would he be then?"

France didn't reply, and America turned his face back to the moonless sky, breathing out another ring of smoke. "It's all so hypocritical, you know," America continued. Rain struck his glasses in a gentle rhythm. "The business of loving someone and caring for them. There's no right way to go about it, and no instruction manual that actually works. No matter how hard you try, one always gets hurt when they fall in love."

"Love isn't always like that," France whispered. America didn't hear his comment, and France didn't repeat it. There were some things the American could just never understand.

Another long heartbeat of silence. The rain fell, America breathed out smoke, and France's heart cracked a bit because he knew what America had said about him was true, no matter how he might deny it.

"I'm tired." France pushed by America after the quiet had gone on too long. "I'm going to bed. We have a meeting, tomorrow, after all."

"Wait."

France paused, hand on the hotel's doorknob. He didn't look over his shoulder. America would talk whether he was looking at him or not, and right now, France would rather not see the other's face. If he did, he might not be able to stop himself from smashing it in.

"Maybe it would just be best if we both left England alone from now on." France's heart clenched in his chest at those words and the calm tone America said them with. His hand tightened on the door handle. "We're both breaking him down, France. Maybe if we weren't there for a while, he'd get better."

"...Maybe so." France opened the door and slipped into the lobby before America could get enough breath to speak again. His eyes were burning, and he wanted to get back to his room before he started to cry.

_Can't leave him, can't be with him_. The words rang true in his hand as he pressed his thumb against the elevator button for his floor. _Can't do anything for him, because I can't afford to break him anymore. Oh lord, what did I do to anger you so much as to stick me in this kind of situation?_

The mirrored elevator walls provided no answers. France ground his teeth and bit his lip to force back his tears. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand as the doors slide smoothly open, and he stepped out into the red-carpeted hallway.

_No matter what I do, I can't make things move forward._ He inserted the room key and let himself into his room. France wobbled the last few steps to his bed and collapsed on it, face-first. His eyes slipped halfway shut as a hot tear managed to crawl down his cheek.

_No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, no matter what I say or believe, I can't make things move forward. We're always going to be going three steps backwards whenever I try to take a step forward._

His eyes shut as the tear dropped off his chin to the sheets below, and then there was silence, because you can't hear the sounds of a shattering heart.

----

**Author's Note**

**Ending's lame and the title sucks, but I hope you enjoyed it. Tried my hand at the England/America/France love triangle. Let me know how I did, kay?**


	7. Snowball Fight

"It's snowing outside!" Matthew grabbed his coat and sprinted for the door, leaving Kumajiro stumbling after him as the Nation flew through the door and into the chill winter's bright sunshine, landing with a heavy "oomp!" in a pile of snow.

The world was awash in white and dark green outside. Tiny snow flakes drifted down from the slate-gray sky, twisting and turning as they fell. The forest surrounding Matt's house was covered in a soft white blanket, bits of the dark evergreens showing underneath as tiny bits of snow fell off and dripped down to the ground.

Gilbert watched from the living room, a small grin on his pale face as Matt raised his arms heavenwards and spun in circles, laughing so hard his eyes were watering. His cheeks were pink, his eyes the brightest blue Gilbert had even seen them, and Gilbert thought that Matt had never looked more beautiful than he did in that one moment.

Kumajiro paused in the doorway, blinking quizzically in the bright light before taking one step forward into the deep, fluffy snow. It rose up to his waist, and the little bear dropped to four paws so he could better trudge through it.

Matt stopped spinning in circles with his face still looking upwards to the sky, a huge grin still splitting his flushed face. Raising his arms over his head once more, he collapsed gracefully into the snow bank behind him. Gilbert raised a slender eyebrow as a plume of snow flew up in the air from the impact to settle on Matt, burying him so much that all Gilbert could see of him was the edges of his red coat.

Matt suddenly shot back up into a sitting position, bare hands cupping snow together. With a wicked grin on his face, he reeled up and threw it towards the living room window where Gilbert sat. The snowball hit the glass a good few inches above his face, and Matt burst out into laughter as trails of snow began to make their way down his window.

Gilbert, grinning, got to his feet and cracked his neck as he headed for the coat rack. Pausing to lift off and put on his navy blue winter coat, he slipped through the kitchen door and headed outside. Matt had fallen back into the snow, his laughing splitting the cool air and echoing in the little valley his house was situated in.

He didn't notice Gilbert coming. Gathering an arm full of snow, Gilbert silently crept up on the snow bank where Matt was lying, coming from behind. Matt's eyes were closed as tears of laughter ran down his cheeks, and Gilbert's grin near doubled in size as he raised his load, higher and higher...and then let it go, right over Matt's face.

Matt only laughed harder as it hit him and began to melt down his neck, dampening the edges of his shirt underneath. His hands raised up, he pawed weakly at Gilbert's face, unable to control his giggles. His face was as bright a red as the maple leaf on his flag.

"You're such a weirdo," Gilbert commented, grinning down at his friend. Matt's bleary, sparkling eyes slide open to look up at him, and he stopped laughing long enough to smile.

"I love this time of year," he said simply, and grabbed a fistful of snow, throwing it up into Gilbert's face as he bolted upright and to his feet, quickly dancing out of reach as Gilbert raised a slow hand to feel his icy wet cheeks.

Matt burst out into laughter again as he bent to pack snow together for another snowball, winding it up and throwing it at his friend. It flew over Gilbert's head, but Gilbert decided that it was the principal that counted, not Matt's lousy aim, and therefore he must return the favor.

Ducking behind a tree, he packed together snow quickly, forming – in his opinion – the most awesome snowball to ever grace the earth. Peeking out behind the tree as Matt threw another snowball at him – it went six feet to Gilbert's left – he wound up and threw his snowball.

It hit Matt in the center of his chest, and Matt's laughter was like music as Gilbert darted out behind his tree to flee to another as Matt hurled snowballs after him. One hit him on his upper thigh, but the rest came nowhere close to him.

Kumajiro watched from his evergreen tree, perched on a limb six feet off the ground. Snow dusted his white fur, black eyes glittering from the cold. He made no comment as Matt danced across the yard, dodging snowballs here with the grace of a dancer and getting whacked with them there, all the while laughing as he threw snowballs (which almost never hit his intended target) at Gilbert.

The sun was sinking low in the sky when they finally stopped, out of breath, cheeks flushed red and eyes dancing and bright. Gilbert's face ached from grinning so hard, and Matt was wheezing from laughing for such a long time, but he was still smiling.

"A-aren't Francis, Arthur and Alfred coming over here later?" Gilbert forced out. Matt nodded, straightening up and tilting his head back so he could breathe in the cool air.

"Y-yes, but all I h-hafta do is put the turkey in t-the oven," Matt wheezed, eyes shutting briefly. "That was fun," he commented, eyes sliding open. It had stopped snowing a long time ago, and the cloud cover was beginning to break up, showing patches of clear azure sky.

"It was," Gilbert agreed, running a hand through his hair. Strands of it had gotten loose and fell in front of his bright crimson eyes. "I can see why you like this time of year so much."

"It's not just the snow I like," Matt replied, heading over to the tree his bear was perched in. "I love the Christmas season, and I love giving people things, and I love the feeling all of my people have at this time."

"And what is that?"

Matt turned to grin at him as he pulled Kumajiro into his arms. "They all feel like they're good people, and like they can do anything." His eyes slide shut, and he breathed deeply. "And when my people feel like that, I feel it too. And it's the most wonderful feeling in the world."

Gilbert watched as Matt trudged back to the kitchen door, heaving it open and setting his bear down on the floor. Kumajiro got to his feet and toddled off somewhere inside. Matt held the door open, and looked back towards Gilbert, still smiling.

"Are you coming? You said you were going to help me wrap gifts, and Arthur, Francis and Alfred'll be here in less than two hours."

With a bark of laughter, Gilbert followed his friend into the house, and the door clicked shut behind them.

---

**Author's Note**

**Dedicated to my big sis, who goes by the username Jashin-chan on deviantART.**

**I love the image of Canada and Prussia getting into a snowball fight. In my head, Canada's always got the worst aim and Prussia pummels him.**

Merry Christmas, everyone!


	8. Mongolia

Mongolia's eyes were as dark as the pits of hell must be without the dance of fire to warm them. Long, midnight-dark hair tangled around his tan, heavily lined face, pulled back with various pieces of cloth here and there. His expression is cold, his smirk cruel, as he watches Russia struggle with his bound hands.

In front of them, merely twenty yards away, Mongolia's boss and generals sit on top of a wide wooden board, eating a luxurious dinner. The fine dining seems not to be spoiled in the least by the blood-curdling screams of the six Russian princes being crushed to death underneath it. The year is 1222, and Genghis Khan has invaded the nation of Russia.

"You are evil," Russia spits, lilac eyes burning with hot tears of rage. His heart is aching as the rib cage of the youngest prince is smashed, the pressure on his slim body suddenly increasing by a tenfold as the fat general shifts his weight, and the royal lets out a long howl, his voice torn with agony, fear, hatred, his face wild and afraid, eyes bright with the fear of the death he knows is coming.

"You are insane. How can you do something like this?" Russia put as much hatred as he could muster into his voice; an easy task for him at the moment. Besides his rage, all he could feel was hate. He didn't think he would ever hate someone as strongly as he hated Mongolia in this moment, didn't think he'd ever wish so much to see someone go to hell as much as he wished right now.

Mongolia's grin has no mirth to it as he turns to face Russia. The youngest prince's breathing is starting to sound strangled, forced. Crimson blood is dripping out of the corner of his mouth, dripping down his icy white chin to fall to the already bloodstained floor.

"I can do this because in this world, it is kill or be killed." His accent is as strong as the harsh gleam of determination in his black, black eyes. "My boss figured that rule out when he was but a child, Russia. I figured it out by watching my people struggle for survival and fight amongst themselves."

"There is no reason to kill my princes." The eldest of the royals let out a high pitched whine, eyes screwed up in pain as tears poured down his checks as his arm begins to fracture and break. The youngest one was fading fast; breathing was becoming harder as his lungs collapsed in on themselves, smothering him from the inside, strangling him without a rope.

"Killing them will make the chance of rebellion much less," Mongolia replied, turning his eyes back to his boss and his generals. They were sharing a piece of meat, telling stories to one another as yet another of the royals let out a shriek as his spine began to shatter.

Russia's own breathing started to feel labored as the youngest prince finally stopped moving, heart beat slowing, slowing...

"No..." Russia whispered, eyes on the prince as his eyes slip shut, fair hair falling in front of his fair face. Then, louder, he repeated, "No! Stop, please! I'll surrender to you; just stop hurting them!"

Mongolia laughed, and waved his hand dismissively in the air. His laugh was cold. There was nothing to really enjoy here, because not even the most hard hearted Nation could truly enjoy death. But that doesn't mean they can't put up a front that they do.

"You know," Mongolia told Russia, ice dancing in his dark eyes, "Even if we did stop now, they would die anyway. The injuries they have are too great. It would just make their death longer and more painful. Do you really want that for them?"

A prince screamed as his spine snapped, and the sound died away, hanging in the air. Russia could taste blood in his mouth; watching his people die so close to him meant he feel their deaths even more clearly.

Tears began to run down his face as he lowered his head. The princes screams were starting to die down as Mongolia's boss stood to act out a battle scene. They were laughing as underneath them, people died.

"How can anyone be so cold?" Russia whispered to himself. Blood was dripping from the edge of his lips. The iron tasted disgustingly bitter and strong in his mouth as his blood mixed with his tears to fall to the ground.

Mongolia didn't appear to have heard him as he eyed his boss and generals. Three of six princes were dead now, and the others were quickly fading. Russia's stomach was churning, and he was grateful he hadn't eaten for the last few days because it meant there was nothing for him to heave up as his princes, his lights, his Nation's hope, died right in front of him.

It took only a few more minutes for two more of the young royals to stop breathing as spines fractured and ribcages were crushed and blood leaked out onto the already red-stained floor, bright, pain filled eyes dulling over as death snatched their souls away from their broken bodies.

The last prince hung on, breathing harshly and eyes glittering with endless tears of pain as he stared beseechingly at Russia, begging him to come help him, save him, stop his agony and misery, pleading with him to do something. Russia wished he would stop fighting. He couldn't save the prince; his hands and ankles were bound, and even if they weren't, he wouldn't be able to save him anyway. Mongolia would have a sword at his throat before he could even near his royal.

Russia turned his head to the side and tried to avoid looking at the prince as he heard the royal's spine give way and the long, agonized shriek of pain as the weight of the board suddenly increased as a young servant stepped onto it to serve Mongolia's boss another goblet of goat's milk. Russia didn't look, but he heard the shattering of bone as the prince's skull was crushed open onto the ground. The taste of blood in his mouth increased until iron and heat filled all of his senses, and cold anger was all that was in his heart.

He chanced a look then. The ground was painted with the princes' blood. The board has completely crushed their bodies so all he could see of his beloved royals was one outreached hand, blood painting pale skin to a light rosy pink. On top of the board, Mongolia's boss was toasting their victory over Russia as the others chortled and raised their cups to salute him. Russia's head was spinning. He didn't even notice the tears pouring down his cheeks.

Mongolia let out a harsh bark of laughter as he kneeled down in front of Russia, dark eyes mocking, laughing, teasing. He was victorious, and he knew that by now, Russia wouldn't have any fire left to fight back.

"Welcome to the real world, Russia," Mongolia said, mocking him openly with his cold smile and cold laugh, confidant in the knowledge of his win and the breaking of Russia's heart. "I hope you enjoy your stay."

----

**Author's Note**

**My local museum recently got an exhibit on Genghis Khan. I found something there about how, when they were attacking Russia, Genghis Khan and his generals ate dinner atop a wooden board while crushing six Russian princes to death underneath it. There's another version that says it was six noblemen, trying to start a rebellion against the Khan. The Mongolians quite literally crushed the rebellion with the deaths of the princes.**

**Thank you for reading, and if you review, you're as awesome as Prussia. Hoped you enjoyed it.  
**


	9. Grand Canyon

He'd been here over a hundred times, staring over this one specific cliff as warm, golden light danced across the canyon walls and played with patterns along the Colorado River. He always came here in late spring, when it wasn't so hot that he wished he could strip his skin off along with his shirt, when a early morning breeze would tangle his blonde hair.

The sun had just poked over the horizon by the time Alfred arrived at Hermit's Rest, coat zipped up to his nose, clenching his camera in shaking hands as he aimed it towards the ball of pure gold rising over the rim of the Grand Canyon. The cliff walls had turned to a dusty crimson with small splatters of a more creamy-colored kind of stone under the sun's warm touch, and Alfred couldn't help smiling as he snapped a few photos.

He wasn't the only tourist up here for the sunrise. There was a short teenage girl who looked like a female Ludwig, with her long golden blonde hair blown backwards and blue eyes watering from the brisk wind. Alfred wondered if she was from Germany, but when the girl turned to speak to a tall man with bushy brown hair and bright green eyes – her father, maybe? - her accent was distinctly American, possibly from the northwest.

There was also a older woman, late forties to early fifties, her shock of dyed bright red hair curling around her pale face and dark green eyes. She held a small camera, a disposable one, and she was carefully aiming it at the sun.

Alfred smiled thinly as he turned back to the sunrise. There were no clouds in the sky, so he focused his camera on the walls of the canyon as the sun lit up the highlights and lowlights of colors imbedded in stone. He could here the girl singing something to herself as she clicked her own camera's button, but other than her song, no one spoke.

The girl and her dad left a few minutes later, and then the old women soon after, leaving Alfred to stare into the distance as the world came to life around him, leaning with his arms on the railing that was there to stop millions of people from tumbling over the edge of the canyon. He'd tucked his camera back inside his pocket, inside of its protective bag – the best lighting for photos had already faded.

He turned his eyes downwards, towards the canyon floor, and considered hiking down the bottom. He didn't need to bring food, or water, or even short clothes – he'd be fine in his jeans and jacket. He wouldn't overheat, or get dehydrated – one of the few benefits as his status as a Nation. Food and drink were not something he really needed, but most Nations preferred to ignore that fact and consume food anyway. It made them feel more human, and not like a immortal being with no clear origin and no fixed end.

Alfred thought about it for a few moments as he looked over the canyon – over four thousand feet to the bottom of it, and no matter how many times he came here, it still awed him that he possessed something as grand as this. Hiking it was always fun, but he only had two weeks off, and he'd already spent three days here – hiking, talking to the Navajo, photographing the canyon – and he still wanted to stop by Mesa Verde, the Sand Dunes, and if he had time, Moab.

It didn't matter how long he'd been around, nor how many times he visited all of his National Parks. They were his favorite places to vacation, despite Arthur's venomous accusations that he enjoyed only hotels set on sandy beaches where he could be tended to by pretty young women. Sandy beaches and sunlit seas were great, but they didn't have the same commanding awe over his soul that the Grand Canyon or the Colorado Rockies or Yellowstone did.

He turned away from the railing with its amazing few and began to stroll along the unpaved, rock-ridded trail that led back to the Grand Canyon Village. The morning was still cool, but his neck was already starting to itch as a small pool of sweat built up under his jacket's collar.

It annoyed him, that Arthur thought that of him – that Alfred needed luxury and everything provided for him to be happy. Arthur must have forgotten how and why Alfred's nation was as it was today – it was a nation built on spirit and rebelliousness, fire and determination. Roughing it was not all that fashionable in the modern world, but camping in a national park had always been more fun than splashing in the surf outside of some five-star hotel that would eat a hole in Alfred's allowance.

The air was filled with birdsong as Alfred rounded the corner to see another dramatic overlook. There was a raven soaring over the canyon, letting out a rusty caw as it circled overhead, scanning the canyon for something. Alfred meandered on, heading back into the cool of the forest trail, whistling to himself.

His phone started to buzz in his pocket, and he groaned to himself as he pulled it out and flipped it open to check the caller ID. _Iggy _flashed on the screen, and Alfred grinned, rolling his eyes. "Of course," he muttered to himself, pressing the talk button.

"Hey, Iggy!"

"_Where the hell are you?" _Arthur might call himself a gentleman, but apparently his version of gentlemanly behavior didn't include pleasantries. _"I've been trying to get ahold of you for the last two days. My boss wants me to talk to you about carbon emissions."_

_Fuck, _he'd forgotten to tell the other Nations he was taking a vacation. "I can't right now. I'm taking a break from work. I'll be back in about a week and a half; can it wait until then?"

"_Bloody hell, of course you're taking a break. What else should I expect from someone like you?" _Sarcasm was thick in Arthur's tone, and Alfred tried to quell the biting retort that bubbled up. He did enjoy Arthur's company, but the way they spoke to each other always left Alfred feeling morose afterwards. Teasing and harsh words were fine until he was alone and the full weight of Arthur's insults hit him.

"Aw, come on, Artie. My boss and I just passed health care and I'm tired."

"_Excuses, excuses. Your people hate the health care bill."_

"Not everyone does." He was betting that within a year, everyone would wonder why it had taken so long for health care reform to take place. But right now, he didn't want to be talking politics and reforms; he wanted to finish his hike and go get breakfast. "Anyway, I'm busy. So see you later, Artie!"

He hit the end button and kept pressing it until the screen turned dark and his phone switched off. Arthur would be furious for hanging up on him, but Alfred wanted to enjoy his country right now and deal with the rest of the world later.

He rounded the corner to another overlook, where a smiling brunette woman in her thirties was clutching the hand of her chubby two year old son as the little boy pulled her forward to the railing at the cliff's edge, tottering about with shaky steps. Alfred grinned as the little boy pointed at the canyon floor, yelling, "Pretty, pretty!"

"Yes, Max," the woman said, bending down to kneel besides her son. "It is pretty, isn't it? Do you see the raven flying over there?" She gestured towards the raven that Alfred had seen earlier, soaring over the canyon effortlessly.

The little child shrieked with excitement, dropping his mother's hand. "Bird!" Alfred chuckled himself as he strolled by. His country, his people – this was beautiful. This was why he loved the National Parks, why he loved being a Nation even though he'd seen years pass and argued with Arthur every day. It might just be worth it if he could see a little kid being amazed by the beauty of the land, something that awed him, even to his day.

Whistling again, Alfred went back to his walk, trying to figure out if he wanted pancakes or french toast more for breakfast.

----

**Author's Note**

**Ugh. Enjoy the plotless/pointlessness.**


	10. Melting Pot

America felt like a creeper.

The railing underneath him was icy cold, and the brisk wind had long since turned his nose into a vivid crimson blob stuck to his face. The day was a nameless shade of grey, dull and unremarkable. The air carried a taint that hinted at snow, but the skies, for now, remained clear.

His coat was bright red, a blur of color in a colorless world. America's hands were numb and his back was starting to ache from the way he was hunching up so he could bury his nose in the coat's fluffy collar. His boots were soaked from a puddle he'd trudged through earlier without thinking that he wouldn't be able to dry off and he couldn't go home just yet to change them.

He felt like a creeper because he was sitting across the street from a high school. His car was busted, so England offered to pick him up from this spot and take him out for a meal – though why he picked a place right by a school filled with underaged kids, America didn't know. Some sort of revenge, maybe – making America look like a pervert by shivering outside a school for a few hours was something England would do.

America was never more grateful for the fact that he looked nineteen.

It was noon. Teenagers huddled around the building, blobs of color in their winter coats, laughter and arguments ringing in the crisp air.

There was one group that drew America's eye, though he tried to look like he was minding his own business. Standing as close to the street as they could get without being out of bounds, the kids in this group looked like freshmen – tiny and somehow less imposing than the other teens.

They weren't obviously special to anyone just passing by, but they were Americans and so America could see the differences and why they were worth noticing. And really, once he began seeing them he couldn't stop seeing something amazing, small as the tiny miracle might be.

A girl with blonde hair streaked with darker gold and gray eyes the same color as the icy sky but somehow warmer was laughing. She looked like a child of Germany's, or any of the Nordics, but she was loud and tiny, her energy levels up there with Italy's, her voice affected by a slight Spanish accent overpowered by something undeniably American.

A tall, gangly boy with dark black hair and eyes so brown that he didn't appear to have pupils berated the German girl to stop talking. His graceful movements and exotic coloring reminded America distinctly of India, but his voice was strongly British, so much so that America smiled and recalled that England was twenty minutes late and his feet were starting to go numb.

Then there was a girl who looked so much like France that America almost went over to ask him what he was doing there. But no, it wasn't France – the girl was too small, her hair more straight than wavy, eyes more green than blue. Her accent was French, and her movements spoke of France, but there was some sort of unique calm to her that most French people lacked.

They were all different, and with obvious ancestry from opposite ends of the globes, and yet they stood there as equals, as friends, even though in the past their families might have painted the ground with each other's blood.

The murmurs of students is split when a sharp ringing sounded. America flinched as students groaned and huffed, complaining all the way back to the front doors of the school. The small group of students, the small group of mixed races and mixed cultures, stream along with them, and America watches them go.

He is a mixing pot, he reminded himself. He allows cultures to mash together and he revels in the crazy mess that follows. His culture allows for a Northern European girl to be as loud and expressive as a Italian, a Indian boy to be British, a French girl to be as serene as the Nordics.

England pulled up five minutes later and America hurriedly hustled inside into the warmth of the automobile. England grunts hello at him as he starts off. "Sorry I was late. Were you bored?" America did note the malicious hint in England's tone. It had been some sort of revenge, then. For what, America didn't know nor care.

"Nah." He doesn't elaborate as he unbuttons his coat. "It was okay. Thanks for getting me."

England's eyes betrayed flickers of surprise. For such a old country, he is far too easy to read, America realized. Everything England is feeling is there, on his face, in his gestures, in his words. He thought of the Indian boy with the British accent. He was easy to read too, body language saying what his words weren't.

"You're welcome," England said finally as they merged onto the highway. "Where do you want to go to lunch?"

America pondered that. He was out of character as it was today, so why not go all the way? "Mexican food. There's a good one at the next exit."

The shock on England's face and the hesitant question of whether he was feeling alright made it worth it. And besides, he secretly really liked fajitas.

**Author's Note**

**I have no idea. I was thinking about how my friends and I - we're all from very different ancestry - are so similar and how our races don't matter. Race is still a issue, and there is still tons of discrimination, but it's slowly getting better. **

**Anyway. Please critique. **


	11. Flute

_The song blasting out of the radio contained tints of baby blue and a wisp of lavender. Beauty in liquid form; it dripped colors into a pool of swirls, mixing them together as they spread out to fill the blackness of his mind._

Sound made life beautiful, for all the hell he'd been through.

He couldn't play the piano. His fingers were stiff, clumsy, ungainly on a violin. Guitar strings dug into his fingers so deeply that he could feel his pulse, beating an incorrect rhythm against the strings. For one who loves music as much as he does, it pains him how so many instruments do not respond to his touch the way he wishes they would.

Flute is all he can play. The sound is crystalline, as blue as winter ice and just as fragile. When he plays, in his mind he can see the strand of blue stretching through the darkness of his mind like a bridge, though he knows it never leads anywhere. The flute's song is a delicate one, translucent and ethereal, and if he makes one mistake, the ice bridge cracks and shatters in his mind, leaving shards to rain down through his thoughts like slivers of razor-edged glass.

Lithuania knows that he is silly, reminiscing the way he does. He cannot mend the things that happened to him in the years – _centuries –_ past; those times are gone. He isn't invaded any more. He needn't fight the Teutonic Knights. The Soviet Union is gone, dissolved; Russia can't caress him any more. He is independent; has been since August 1991. He has a future now; one that should not be compared to the azure strands of ice that the music his flute breathes out and weaves across his mind, so exquisite in their breakability.

And yet.

Yet.

He cannot stop it.

Time plays tricks on the mind, _Lithuania muses as he rubs at his silver flute with a soft cloth. It shines dully under the florescent lighting, and he can see the streaks from his persistent cleansing. His flute is spotless, sterilized really – occasionally he dunks it in boiling water to be certain that it is truly pure._

In all his years, he has relearned the same lessons again and again – _do not trust any one. _Trust equals pain upon betrayal, a pain so agonizing that the few sweet moments trust brings do not make up for the sheer amount of agony that comes later.

_The song switches from the reassuring calm colors to a darker one, streaked with crimson and indigo. His hair is getting in his face, a curtain of brown that turns the world fuzzy and softens the hard edges of the furniture in his home. _

Poland didn't save him, Prussia tried to annex him, America used him, Russia took away his freedom and bound him into a union of misery. There was no color in any of those; music lost all beauty. Only the flute, in its frigid elegance, held something, as elusive and translucent as an icicle in the middle of spring.

_Lithuania tries to tell himself he is not bitter, but the taste of iron in his mouth lets him know he's lying._

Alliances have to be formed, he knows, because that is the way the world works. Trade agreements will be made, relations with foreign countries have to be improved. Lithuania knows it, but he also knows that as close as his country will come to another, he, as a human, will not –_ can not –_ really trust anyone ever again.

_He gently sets his flute down on his dining room table and folds his cloth up to tuck it in the edge of his instrument's case. His throat is burning, teeth grinding together – this is why he doesn't like to review the past; it never fails to agitate him and remind him of everything that happened. _

_He picks up his flute up again, tracing the cool metal with feather light fingers. Music is all he really can rely on now, for comfort and for joy. His wariness towards the other Nations is strong enough that he feels alone in the world now, not sure whom to trust. Poland wants to continue their friendship, but all he can remember is the look on Poland's face as Russia dragged him away. Russia still unnerves him, though he has been free from him for twenty years. And America is too tangled up in his own problems for him to possibly help Lithuania._

_He's alone again. Lithuania smiles bitterly and picks his flute up, placing it against his lips and breathing out a strand of azure ice that arches through the darkness in his mind as the note rises and falls._

_He begins to forget as he plays, and he feels somewhat at peace with the world._

**Author's Note **

**...I'm not sure why I wrote this ^^**

****

I just thought Lithuania needed more attention, so I did some research on his history - and holy hell, he's had a really bad time.

Anyway. Apparently, during the Dark Ages, he was always getting annexed and invaded by other countries. He finally got the Teutonic Knights out during the thirteenth century, and a few hundred years later entered a alliance with Poland. When Poland was partitioned, Lithuania was split up, with most going to Russia and a small part to Prussia.

During 1918, Lithuania declared itself independent, but then he got sucked into the Soviet Union shortly afterwards. He finally declared independence again during 1991, and in 1993 was the first of the Baltic states to be free of Russian military.

Also, Lithuania has the highest suicide rates in the world.

**I do not know how flutes got worked into this, but they did, and apparently Lithuania has synathesia.**_**  
**_


	12. State of the Union

The Civil War had been awful – not only for the death it caused, but because it made America realize something.

His people called themselves united, said they stood as one, proclaimed to accept everyone and anyone. But he could see they were divided in their unity, and really, there were so many different cultures and ideas and dreams and thoughts and everything mixing together for his people to truly ever be one.

Oh sure, they try – sometimes America thinks that maybe he was wrong, and maybe it is possible for his people to truly become accepting and unbiased, just maybe...and then a Republican senator cheats on his wife, breaking "traditional family values" and the Democrats go haywire, or the Democrats begin to dither over some policy and don't even notice as the Republicans sweep in and steal a senator seat, a governor's mansion, a presidency, right from under their feet.

Really, both parties can be a pain, America thinks. He can't voice that sentiment out loud, ever – oh no, never. Not many people might know him for what he truly is, but he is a fairly well known and respected politician, so he has to keep his nose clean and never, ever mention what he's really thinking.

He is the country, after all – he always has to believe that they'll pull through, no matter what.

Sometimes, his nation stands united. 9/11, Hurricane Katrina, the Haiti earthquake – his nation stood as one, pouring out gifts, support, encouragement, hopes and dreams. He has seen the power of his nation when they are standing together and he knows it to be awe-inspiring. He knows with that kind of power, his country could truly change the world.

But too often, his countrymen fight each other, stalling for years over the debate of gay rights – across the ocean, Sweden and Spain and the Netherlands and so many other Nations are giving homosexuals the rights for marriage and adoption while his own people scream insults and point at the Bible as the reason why two people who truly love each other cannot be bound in holy matrimony. There are kids refusing to say the pledge of allegiance until gays are granted their rights and people who will march against the capital if gays are grants their rights.

They fight over abortion and whether it should be legal or not, when the fetus qualifies as having a soul, and do we humans have souls anyway? They screech at each other so much that America wonders, sometimes, if they even remember what they're fighting about.

They argue over medicine, clean air, pollution, don't-ask-don't-tell, genetically modified foods, sweatshops, labor unions, gun rights, credit cards, green technology, global warming – over everything and nothing they fight and America wants to scream with the sheer inanity and hatred of it all.

It is nearly impossible for his country to truly stand united. This America knows, this he believes. He can't say it because politicians have to say that the people can be as one and because humans have to believe that they belong to a pack that thinks and feels like they do and his beliefs could, would, only be the sharp stick and red flag in front of a enraged bull.

The Civil War awoke him to this, with the battle over slavery and the losses of thousands of young men. He should have realized it sooner in his history, he reflects bitterly – the battles between the Loyalists and the rebels during the Revolutionary War could have opened his eyes.

But no, he'd shut them tight and tried to believe in his people and their ability to come together.

He isn't sure if it's important to all unite, except that it would make politics and passing laws so much easier, could rid the country of some of the tension and anger and hatred and rage and sexism and racism.

His people can't unite, America believes. America is a melting pot, and while this lets cultures mix and flow into each other and can result in brilliance and beauty, sometimes America curses it, because it's pouring water on the oil and he isn't sure how long he can keep down the flames.

**Author's Note**

**Admittedly pretty heavily colored by my own biases and beliefs. **

**I think our culture is so diverse and vast and really, we have too much stuff - opinions, thoughts, beliefs - that it makes it hard for Americans to come together and really do anything.**

Could just be me.  



	13. Logic

"The logic behind love is cruel, unbelievably so," Francis muses out loud, hand curled elegantly around the stem of a fragile wineglass, rich crimson wine sloshing around inside. His blonde hair is tied back with a blue silk ribbon, the same color as his eyes, and the edges of it curl on his linen shirt.

Gilbert cracks a weary smile. "We agreed on no rambling." He takes a swing of his bitter beer and winces as he forces it down; Ludwig drank all their good quality stuff the day before. He sets his bottle aside and scrubs vigorously at his mouth.

"But I'm not," Francis murmurs, swirling his drink around before sipping at it gingerly and exhaling heavily. His wine is heady and rich, aged to perfection. His head is spinning pleasantly, and the colors of his living room melt together into a lovely blend. "I have something I was going to add on after that."

"Continue, then."

Francis leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stares deep into Gilbert's bloody red eyes. He sips at his wine again, shutting his eyes to savor the taste, before breathing out, "Why do we always fall in love with the one we can't have?"

Silence. Gilbert wracks his brain for something to say, but Francis continues after a minute. "If you look at the relationships all the Nations have had through the years, you see what I mean. Antonio and Lovino – though they love each other, Lovino is a stubborn ass about admitting anything and Antonio is as dense as ever. Feliks still cares about Toris, but Toris has been hurt so many times he can't care any more. Yao will never stop loving Kiku, but really, Kiku's grown up and beyond needing Yao now. And then there's you and Mathieu," Francis continues, gesturing with his free hand at Gilbert. Gilbert's jaw tightens, hand gripping his bottle so tightly his knuckles turn snow white.

"What about Mattie?" he growls, looking to the side so Francis can't see the pain in his eyes. Francis smiles, sadly, and brushes a strand of golden hair from his blue eyes.

"Matthew is, and always will be, blind to how much you love him," he says, tilting his head to the side. Gilbert inhales sharply, then takes a steadying breath as he turns to look at Francis with ice in his eyes. "And really," Francis adds before Gilbert can say anything, "You know it's probably for the best that that happens. Mathieu is still a country, unlike you. He has duties, and you know you'd only get in the way. His loyalties lie with his people, while you're a drifter."

"You..." Gilbert trails off, thinking over what he wants to say, before he sighs and says, "You've hit the nail on the head." He looks so miserable that Francis almost takes back what he said. "Mattie doesn't have the time to deal with me, and he needs to focus more on foreign relations than anything else." He bites down on his upper lip, chewing thoughtfully. "It'd be for the best if I stayed out of his way."

"I think that's the first time since the collapse of the Soviet Union I have seen you look so serious, _mon ami_."

Gilbert smiles weakly, white-blonde hair in his eyes. "Time and love do weird things to us all." They both take another gulp of their drinks. Gilbert stands up to throw away his empty bottle and grab a new one. "So why'd you bring it up?" he hollers from the kitchen over the clanking of glass on metal.

Francis's lips curve up at the edges, though there is no humor in his eyes. He swirls the wine around his glass again. "I understand how you feel, Gilbert," he replies sadly, "Though unlike you, my love has his attentions fixated on someone other than me."

Gilbert pops his head back into the living room, eyes comically wide. "Arthur, right? Geez, Francis, I thought you gave up on him long ago."

"Will you ever give up on Mathieu?" Francis shoots back, scowling at him with uncharacteristic steel in his eyes and words. "No, Gilbert. I can't give up on Arthur. I never will be able to, really, though I know he'll never really care about me the way I do him."

Gilbert edges back into the room, clutching a new bottle of beer in one hand. "Sucks to be you. Fought with the British bastard for over two thousand years to realize that you love him," he snorts as he falls back onto the sofa opposite Francis. He cracks open his bottle with a skilled flick of his wrist and chugs some down. "Now he's gone gaga over Alfred and you're left out in the cold, huh?"

"Precisely." Francis ignores the bitter feelings Gilbert's accurate remarks brought up; he should be used to them by now. He's lived with them for nearly a hundred years, after all, ever since he figured out that he, the country of love, the one who would never settle down, had fallen head over heels for a bad tempered Nation with fire in his eyes and a cold word on his tongue.

"So," Gilbert starts, drawing Francis's attention back to present, "What are you going to do about it?"

"Do about what?"

Gilbert smirks at him, though he looks as exhausted and miserable as he has looked since Francis brought up the topic of Matthew. "About loving Arthur."

"Oh." He blinks. "Nothing."

"Why not?" Gilbert probes, taking another swing from his bottle. Francis smiles wearily.

"It's too late to change anything," he says simply. "I'd rather see him happy with Alfred than with me and miserable."

"You've gotten less selfish," Gilbert notes, setting his bottle down so he can crack his neck. "Three hundred years ago you would have forced Arthur to love you, happiness or not."

"Maybe I'm getting more civilized," Francis mutters onto the rim of his wineglass before draining the last little bit. He pours himself another glass from the bottle on the wicker table to his right.

"Like that'd ever happen," Gilbert snorts, but Francis knows he's only joking by the way the light hits his eyes and makes them glow more pink then red and by the tiny dimple that appears on his left cheek. "Well," Gilbert continues, raising his bottle in a mock-toast, "Here's to permanent bachelorhood and watching the ones we love pair themselves off with someone else."

They share another tight, bitter smile before downing their drinks and letting the topic fade away into the back of their minds.

**Author's Note**

**I am not a huge fan of FrUK or PruCan, but I do like the more angsty parts of it. Prussia is not a Nation, and therefore can disappear at any time. France and England fight all the time and England as a character is too hung up on the past to see the present.**

**Could just be me. Enjoy anyway. **


	14. Violin

He always waits for West to leave. It's usually early evening by the time he does, and their shared home is coated with a haze of gray shadows and the cool breezes of early evening. West will pull on his favorite leather jacket by the door, picking his keys up from the table as he walks by it, still covered with the remains of their dinner. His keys always jingle as he drops them into his pocket.

He will tell Gilbert to put away the leftovers and call the dogs in as he stuffs his wallet into his jeans, but both of them know that Gilbert'll put it off until it's too late and West's already home, dead tired, and irritated that his brother can't follow a simple direction. Gilbert doesn't know why West keeps trying, but he always nods, grinning, and slaps his brother on the back as he slips out the front door, telling him to have a great time at Feliciano's place and to always remember to use protection.

In summer, West just rolls his eyes and wheels his bike out of the garage so he can bike to the train station or the pub downtown. In the winter months, those sort of remarks earn him a snowball being thrown at his head, but he always shuts the door an instant before it can hit him, cackling madly as ice and melting water drips down the glass.

Gilbert doesn't always know where his brother's going – sometimes it's Feliciano's house, sometimes he's going out drinking with Roderich, or going on a hiking trip through Switzerland. It doesn't matter that West doesn't tell him; his younger brother's able to take care of himself.

When Gilbert is sure that West is gone and is certain that neither Roderich or Elizaveta will drop in unexpectedly, he always retreats to his room. He has a nice room – West, a few years back, had given him a budget of a little over two thousand euros and let him redecorate. Done in back and gold, it always looks a little gloomy in the evening light, but he doesn't mind. Kiku'd given him a futon to sleep on, and now he shifts it aside and pries up a loose floorboard to reveal a small hole, wide enough to hold a instrument case and a few music books.

He gently will grasp the edges of the leather case and hauls it out, before digging around in the hole for his music books and tossing them on top of his futon. He stands with the case and places it on the nightstand by the door, which is empty except for a light in the shape of a eagle, about to take flight. He will unlock the case, open it, and almost reverently draw out his violin.

It's a nice one, done in a rich, dark wood and polished to a sheen. He'd gotten it as a Christmas gift from Roderich, almost a century ago, before World War One and before everything changed. He'd lost his home during the aftermath of the war, and his money had been useless because of inflation rates, but somehow, he'd kept ahold of this violin. He'd learned to play – first the basics, then working his way up through Minutes and waltzes.

He'd lost it, temporarily, during the years of the Berlin Wall, when he'd lived with Ivan. He'd hated, hated, hated being a part of the Soviet Union, hated it beyond all rationality. He'd lost his brother, his friends. He'd lost his land, his status as a Nation, everything that made him him. He'd been forced to learn Russian, to listen to all of Ivan's leaders speeches on the evils of Capitalism and America. He'd personally liked Alfred well enough, the last time he'd seen him, but that had been before the First World War, so maybe people change.

There'd been mass famines and fear over the Cold War, anger towards the government and chanting in the streets as people who identified themselves as "Lithuanians" and "Estonians" cried out for freedom. Toris and Eduard, to Gilbert, seemed too timid to protest for their freedom, but people were surprising, so he didn't rule it out.

But the thing Gilbert hated most was there was no music in Ivan's house, or at least, he didn't get to hear it. Ivan didn't care much for it, and therefore didn't let Gilbert play it, and none of the Baltic states could sing out of fear and exhaustion. The people Gilbert had met the few times he'd been allowed out had seen Ivan by his side and shut up, not allowing a single note to pass their lips. The world was blanketed in quiet, and it squeezed at his throat until he felt like he wanted to scream just so he would know he wasn't suffocating.

The Wall fell in 1991, and he'd gone home to West, feeling sick and vaguely light headed as he stumbled away from the remainder of the wall – cracked gray bricks and sobbing families clutching at each other – as he stumbled into his brother's arms.

And they'd gone to West's little town house in the middle of Berlin, situated on a charming street lined with charming little shops. The inside of West's house reeked of quiet elegance – he'd gotten a lovely grandfather clock, and Feliciano had covered the walls with paintings. It always smelled faintly of vanilla, and there wasn't even a rug out of line until Gilbert got there and the house slowly dissolved into a state of confused cleanliness, with Gilbert's filthy socks on the freshly vacuumed rug or a beer spill on the newly cleaned kitchen counter.

West had kept an empty room for him, all those long years when he'd been a part of the USSR, and the only thing in it the first time he'd entered was his violin, leaning against the far wall underneath the window overlooking the street. He'd laughed, called his brother a sap and teased him about it, but he was glad to see his violin again.

The first time he'd tried to play again, his fingers were stiff and ungainly on the strings. He'd forgotten rhythms, notes, how to play, and he'd felt bitter as he flipped to the first page of his lowest level music book.

It took five years to remember why and how he'd played in the first place. The songs came out strangled and stiff, unnaturally cold and robotic. Gilbert was frustrated and practiced harder, only to keep playing the same songs that were music without being music. It was like living without breathing, seeing without looking, loving without knowing what hate felt like. It was maddening.

And then West, one warm summer's night, had told him to put on a jacket, and they'd gone to Roderich's for an impromptu get together. Roderich had made his lovely apple strudel. Elizaveta was there with a stash of hilarious stories. Feliciano had shown up halfway through the evening with a plate of Italian sweets, and they'd all sat on Roderich's patio and watched the sun set over the Alps, drinking coffee and talking about the last World Meeting, in which Arthur had thrown a chair at Alfred and Matthew had spilled maple syrup all over Francis's lovely blonde hair.

He'd laughed, harder than he had in months, and ate until he was stuffed. He'd hugged all of them good night, and fallen asleep on his brother's shoulder on the train back home.

He'd played the next morning, a lively tune that made his soul sing so he couldn't help but breathe, "A new day has come," as his bow danced on the strings and his fingers flew.

Over a decade has passed now. He isn't sure why he hides his violin, except that violin playing doesn't sit well with the image of Gilbert the prankster, the beer drinker, the comedian. Music, to him, is something special, something private, to be shared with select few. He's played for his brother before, and for Roderich and Elizaveta, and even Francis and Antonio, but music, to him, if it is something he makes on his own, it is something to be enjoyed on his own.

When he is alone, he can sing to whatever song he is singing. He can play silly folk songs or serious dirges. He can play whatever takes his fancy and to hell with the consequences.

In the gloom of his room as the sun sinks down over the horizon, Gilbert will click on his eagle shaped lamp and smile as he gingerly lifts his beloved violin out of the case. Tucking it under his chin and picking up his bow, fingers sliding to the correct position without a conscience thought on his part, he will test it to see if it is in tune. He's obsessive about making sure it is, all the time, so he can pick it up the moment West leaves.

Sometimes, a pure note will ring in the cool, still air, and his face will break into a grin as his fingers begin the dance of a lively waltz, eyes shutting as he lets the music take him over, pouring all of his love for his brother, his friends and the beauty of living into this one song. Sometimes, he needs to tune it, just a little bit, before he can start, bur he never minds.

What Ivan did not understand about music during the years of the Soviet Union, he always thinks, is incredible. Music is truth, and says what words cannot, even if they are only said in the private of a bedroom after one's brother's gone out for the evening. The important thing is, is now that Gilbert's free to say them all he wants.

* * *

**Author's Note**

**Um...sorta-ish companion fic to Flute. I spent a very dull summer afternoon pairing various countries with what instruments I think they would play and why, so I might write more of these if people like them.**

I'm not sure why I picked violin for Prussia, except that it seemed to _fit_ him. Both of them are elegant, and yet can be utterly hilarious (fiddle music cracks me up. Not sure why.).

Um. Random musings, more or less. Hope you liked. Please critique.


	15. On Alcohol and the Nature of Change

"People don't really change," Antonio says, handing Francis a glass of crimson wine and tossing Gilbert a bottle of his favorite beer before settling down in his puffy pink sofa, shuffling some paperwork aside. The sun is setting; they can see the pink and orange-gold sky fading into the indigo of night through Spain's enormous windows facing the mountains to the west. The house smells heavily of cinnamon and sugar – they just finished a batch of _churros _for desert.

Francis smiles, tapping the rim of his glass against his lips. His eyebrow quirks knowingly, warm amusement in his cold blue eyes. "Either it's Lovino again..." he begins, trailing off, with another omniscient eyebrow twitch.

"Or you've been hitting the tequila before we got here," Gilbert finishes, popping the cap off his bottle with a skilled twist of his wrist. Off-white foam bubbles up and overflows; Gilbert swears as it runs down his arm to drip slowly onto the white chair he's lounged in. "Shit. Sorry, Toni."

Antonio chuckles and waves it off as he pours himself another shot of tequila with his free hand. "I'll forgive you if you foot the cleaning bill." He looks down in his class, swirling the amber liquid almost absentmindedly before taking a swing and clicking the glass down on the nearby end table. "But _s__í__, _it's Lovino again."

Gilbert cackles, clapping a hand over his mouth to prevent his beer from spewing out. "We have one of these talks every single week, and have for over three hundred years," he says when he trusts himself to speak. His red eyes glimmer in the dying evening light. "Lovino's the same way he was as a child."

Francis scowls, and leans over to whack Gilbert on the head with his free hand. "_Mon ami_," he scolds, "Everything changes. No, Lovino is not the same."

"Bu that's the thing, _¿__verdad?_" Antonio's eyes are bright, and there is a stubborn set to his chin that tells Francis and Gilbert both that they are in for a long debate. "I keep thinking over it – history, I mean – and I can't think of how he changed. I know he's had to, because we all have. Like, Gilbert."

"What about me? Hey, this had better not involve the dancing on Roderich's lawn naked story..."

The tequila bottle is knocked over as Antonio flings his hands out, caring not where they go. The sugary-sweet reek of alcohol permanents the room. Francis delicately wrinkles his nose and discreetly shifts his chair over to the window so he can crack it open. Antonio doesn't notice the spill as he rants, "But that's precisely it, Gil! You'd have never done that three, four hundred years ago. No, it'd have ruined your dignity."

"I didn't know Gilbert had any to begin with," Francis remarks drily, watching Antonio's lacy white curtains flutter in the evening breeze. Gilbert splutters something, pauses, realizes that his friends won't listen anyway, and sullenly chugs the remainder of his beer.

Antonio is silent for a moment, seemingly collecting his thoughts, because he says slowly, "And you too, Francis. You're not as much of the busybody as you use to be."

Francis looks mildly shocked, lips curved into a pleasant smile. "A busybody?" he repeats, not looking offended in the slightest. "Why would you call me a busybody?"

"Because you were," Gilbert mutters, curling up in his chair and hugging a fluffy white pillow to his chest. "You were always telling Matthew and Vietnam and Seychelles and all those colonies of yours down in Africa what to do. And then with trying to conquer the world with Napoleon. And your Revolution."

"I don't understand how this contributes to me being a busybody."

Antonio rakes his hands through his thick chestnut hair. It stands in curly points, and the light from the hallway catches it and gives him an almost glow as he leans forward, saying, "You were always busy with something, Francis. Never had time for anything but fighting and running your country."

"Did any of us?" Francis asks drily, peering at Antonio through his blonde fringe, eyes bemused, in a cold way. He sets his empty glass down on the nearby table and links his fingers together, and his friends can tell my his too-relaxed posture that he is fighting the urge to flee. Francis fully relaxes only when he is afraid of something. "Life was made of wars, treaties and the daily business of living back then. I'm sorry, but I simply didn't have time to hit the pubs with you. I'm not Arthur." His nose crinkles; he looks arrogant and vain.

"Weird, innit," Gilbert muses as he stares moodily at his empty beer bottle, "That Arthur, who had just has much political trouble as you, could still go drinking with me from time to time."

"Arthur's never been one to turn down a good, stiff drink. Back to the main topic. You were saying, Antonio?"

Antonio looks up from his glass of tequila, bright green eyes wide in almost child-like confusion before he remembers what they had been talking about beforehand. "Oh. That was all I really wanted to say. I did want to know if you think Lovi's changed at all, really."

"He has," Francis says simply. He still looks too much at peace, and Antonio is observant enough to know he should take care with how he phrases the next thing he wants to say.

"Was it as dramatic a change as the one Matthew went through?" He asks, twinging Matthew's name with a thick accent, as if distorting the word will lessen it's impact on his friend, but it doesn't work. Francis's hands seem to go boneless as all the tension leaves them, and Antonio senses that maybe he's going to places he shouldn't.

"And how has Mathieu changed?" Francis says quietly, his eyes darker than the evening sky on the night of a lunar eclipse and as unreadable as a book with no words.

"He's kinda pissed about never getting noticed, for starters," Gilbert mutters into his pillow as he rubs his face into it. He's slowly falling asleep; Francis knows he'll be out like a light in less than two minutes. "Sweetness tempered with fire, really. He looks like he can't hurt a fly, but the kid has known just as much betrayal as the rest of us, and there's something to him that says that if he ever got really mad, I wouldn't want to be anywhere near there."

"No, not just that," Antonio muses, setting his empty glass on the floor and cracking his stiff neck. Francis is staring at him with the too dark eyes, his body still too loose, the set to his mouth still too cold and un-Francis like. "Matthew's...I don't know...older. I mean, he looks like he knows that life's not all fun and games, for all his pretty looks. In contrast, Alfred's still got to figure out that he's not the center of the universe and that not everything will always go his way. Matthew's more mature, is what I'm trying to say."

"Everyone matures with time."

"I can think of plenty of people who haven't," Gilbert says sleepily. His words are starting to run together, like a painting with water thrown on it.

"Name one."

"Alfred, for starters. And Im Yong Su. And Peter. Want more?"

"Just shut up and go to sleep, Gil," Francis says wearily, leaning forward and rubbing at his face with one hand.

"Kay..." His breathing evens out a moment later, and Francis wonders at Gilbert's powers at falling asleep anywhere at any time. Antonio is watching Gilbert with brotherly affection in his eyes, but after a moment his gaze flickers back up to meet Francis's.

"Lovino's changed," Francis says, answering the unspoken question. He keeps his face hidden in his cupped palms. "He's more able to see the world for what it is than his brother – that it can be cold, cruel and utterly unfair. He can see that those who deserve the best in life don't necessarily get what they should, that the best die young, that loving someone can be a exercise in insanity. I think he goes a little too far with it, but he can see beyond the illusions society puts up for us, unlike Feliciano."

"Did he not do that as a child?" Antonio asks quietly, weaving his fingers together and sitting up a little straighter in his seat. Unlike Francis, who relaxed when he was afraid, Antonio was blatantly obvious with his tension, his fear. It was painted like a bullseye on his face, in his eyes, there to be noticed and exploited.

Francis ponders this for a moment, then shakes his head slowly. His long hair rasps gently against his shirt. "...No. Childhood provides the illusion that the world is a lovely, safe place. Which isn't to say that it isn't, but it's not nearly as safe and wonderful as children believe it to be."

"Lovi was always cynical, even as a child," Antonio tells him in a quiet tone, like he's telling him the world's biggest secret. Francis cracks a tired smile.

"I know, Toni. I did talk to him occasionally. There is a difference between his behavior then and now. He's more...accepting of the way things are."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Is it a bad thing?" Francis repeats, looking thoughtful. The sun's sinking down over the horizon, and the room's cast into indigo gloom. Antonio, who is sitting opposite of him, catches the last few rays of light and his eyes glitter momentarily. "Maybe. Not accepting that things are the way they are gives you an incentive to change things, after all. But maybe not. If one can realize that things happen, I suppose you could enjoy life more. It's a hard question to answer, Toni, and I'm tired."

"You're upset because I mentioned Matthew."

Francis's smile is like ice. "That too."

"Do you want the guest room?" Antonio asks abruptly, jerking to his feet suddenly. Francis is startled, although he doesn't show it – years of training, of fighting, has taught him that revealing too much about his emotions about him can result in death, so he hides his feelings and only shows those he can get away with. "I think we can leave Gil here, seeing how he's perfectly happy to make out with his pillow."

"Sure," Francis says, getting slowly to his feet and gathering the empty glasses from their drinking so he can take them to the kitchen. "We might want to get a blanket for him, though."

"My country is warm enough this time of year," Antonio says, waving his hand dismissively as he gathers empty tequila and beer bottles. They clink together cheerfully as he picks them up, a cool, ringing noise in the warm air. "He'll be fine. And if he isn't, than I'll make him pancakes for breakfast and I'll be forgiven anyway."

He turns to leave, but Francis's free hand shoots out and grips his bicep, wrinkling the soft cloth of Antonio's favorite crimson shirt. Antonio's eyes are questioning, and Francis shakes his head slightly.

"We're not done with that conversation," he tells him, keeping his voice low so he won't wake Gilbert, although he knows that Gilbert's next to impossible to wake up even when one is trying to wake him up. "You cannot mention something about how cold and angry Mathieu is and expect me to not want to know why you think that."

"Because he is, Francis," Antonio tells him, smiling gently. Francis hates that gentle smile – it's too close to pity. "You just can't see it, for you still see him as a blonde eyed boy who would have followed you to the edge of the world and back. But you left him, left him in Arthur's care. Anyone would be hurt after something like that – even you. He is not a child, so you need to stop thinking of him as one."

"I don't."

"Yes you do. That's why this conversation is bothering you so much – you know it's true. Now let go of me, _por favor_ – I think I'm about to drop these bottles." Francis releases him, and Antonio gingerly steps around the stacks of pillows and organized chaos as he weaves his way towards the door. Francis stands there for a moment, before following him.

Gilbert sleeps on, quiet snores breaking the silence of the now empty room.

* * *

**Author's Note**

**...does this even have a plot? Or even make sense? Anyway - please review. **


	16. Kokle

Some instruments produce a melody that rings true when paired with another. Latvia prefers to think of himself as an instrument that sings best when it sings alone. Maybe this stems from his desire to be independent, his disgust at always tailing behind someone for his endless existence. He isn't sure where it comes from, but it's there, and he finds it refreshing because now he doesn't need to follow behind someone.

The _kokle_ is bulky, and it rests awkwardly, heavily, as he tries to shift it to the proper position. His sheet music is stacked haphazardly, weighed down with a root and dirt covered rock so the brisk breeze does not entice the sheets into following it into the cloud-covered sky. The gentle wind is breathing on his fingers, stiffening them, making them refuse his orders to bend so he may play. The bare branches of the dying pine tree he leans against clack together; skeletal hands clapping for the songs he has yet to strum. The frigid cold is not good for his _kokle_, but the hush of his home was driving him to distraction and he could no longer stand the silent pressure.

He plucks at a few of the strings to check the tuning. The highest chord has gone flat; it sounds dull, dreary, complimenting the dull and dreary day. He tunes it, tests it. He's gone too high now, and the note that rings in the air is as sharp as winter ice.

There is a quiet crunch of footsteps on dried leaves, the rasping whisper of cloth rubbing on cloth disturbing the noisy silence. Latvia peers up at the intruder through his blonde fringe as his fingers continue to try to tease the correct note out of his _kokle_.

Lithuania is shifting from foot to foot, floppy moss green hat shoved over his wavy chestnut hair. His nose is buried in the collar of his black wool coat, hands shoved into the deep pockets. He says nothing for a moment, watching Latvia struggle with the tuning of his _kokle_ – he's close to the right note; so close it doesn't even really matter now, but Latvia keeps trying to tune it to perfection so the silence between him and Lithuania does not become too stiff, too suffocating.

When Lithuania finally speaks, his voice is low, calm, almost sad. "I take it you won't be joining me and Estonia to visit Poland?"

Latvia lets the question hang in the frozen air until he can hear Lithuania's uncomfortable shifting again, dried leaves crackling, sticks snapping under his graceless feet.

"I'm tired," Latvia says quietly, strumming a short, sleepy tune that the wind whips away before it has the chance to linger. He wonders if Lithuania will understand what he means. Lithuania is kind, compassionate, but he is also very narrow-minded, unable to fully accept the passage of time for what it is. Lithuania lives in the past; if not Lithuania the nation, then Lithuania the person. He is forever dwelling on days long gone that shall never return.

Latvia looks to the past for lessons on what to do in the present, so he can move forward, but just looking at all the years he has lived makes him exhausted. It's a sort of tired not many people understand, where he feels doomed to live and doesn't want to die, and time stretches out like an empty highway he must wander for the rest of eternity.

Lithuania purses his lips, looking pensive. His hands inch out of his pockets and fiddle with the buttons on his coat. "Ah. All right. Estonia and I'll just leave you alone then. We're staying there for dinner, so-"

"It's okay," Latvia cuts in, reaching over to adjust the rock so he can read more of his sheet music. The buttons on his navy blue coat clink against the strings, muting the sound before it has a chance to sound beautiful. "I can make myself some food. You and Estonia need some time to just relax. Don't worry about me; I'll be fine."

A brief smile flickers across Lithuania's somber face, and his green eyes flash brilliantly, a moment of color to brighten the dismal day. "Don't just stuff yourself with cheese pastries again; you know that isn't healthy," he says lightly. Latvia's lips curve up at the edges, and he rolls his eyes as he settles back against the trunk of the pine.

"It was just that once," he says primly. Lithuania chuckles quietly, no malice to it at all.

His fingers are pressing into the taunt strings of the _kokle_, imbedding the pattern of the wires into the soft flesh. He turns his attention to his messy music notes, mouthing the notes silently to himself and praying Lithuania will get the hint and leave.

He can hear the dry crackle of leaves and the whispering rasp of clothing against cloth as Lithuania strides away into the dull December day. He waits until he can no longer see the sharp silhouette of the elder Nation's fragile form against the slate gray sky; waits until all he can hear is the clack of dying tree branches clapping. Once he is sure that Lithuania is gone and no one he doesn't want to hear his music can, he begins to trail his fingers along the chords, beating out a strong rhythm against the broad neck of his _kokle_.

Latvia likes the complicated pieces, the songs that require his fingers to flit and fly over the strings like they have a mind of their own. He loves the songs that resemble the rush of a roaring river, the clash of sword, the melodic music of birds on an early morning. He needs to feel, to see, while playing; otherwise the notes are empty and he doesn't know if he is playing at all.

The cold breeze pressing on his side and breathing on his shaking hands seems to lessen. The rattle of the wind in the branches of the dying pine quiets. The world appears to grind to a halt, and Latvia feels that he is the cause, the reason, for it all.

Latvia wishes sometimes he could stop time, turn it back. He is old; if not as a state, then as a nation of people who called themselves Latvians. He has fought for as long as he has been alive to stay as he is; the representation of a proud tribe of Baltic people. Archeologists have found settlements in his land dating back to 2000 BCE, but Latvia knows he is older that that, although he looks barely adolescent, younger than most of the other Nations.

He presided over the founding of Riga, his lovely capital, in 1201, the establishment of a prosperous trading route and the selling of amber. He fought off attacks from Poland, from Prussia, from Sweden, and Russia, all of whom desired his pretty city and placement by the river Daugava. He lived through the World Wars, the occupation of Nazi Germany, the Soviet Union. Now, although the USSR is gone and he is free, his people suffer from high unemployment rates and Latvia wonders if they will ever move forward.

He looks young; barely sixteen, maybe eighteen at best, and yet he is ancient, world weary, and he has seen too much. The _kokle_, he finds, is similar to him in many respects. He likes it best when it sings alone, and it too has a long history that much of the world has forgotten. It carries silent pride in its simple beauty, and few know how truly lovely it can be when played correctly.

Lithuania and Estonia have most likely left by now; his house will stand silent and empty, the halls echoing with the faint drip of water from the leaky faucet in the bathroom Latvia has never gotten around to fixing. His brothers will be just arriving at Poland's pastel pink home, noses buried in the collars of their heavy winter coats, cheeks flushed from the cold as Poland yammers on about his soaps as he shoves their garments into the hall closet.

Latvia is content to be here, sitting under a dying pine tree on a blustery December day, the wind in his hair and his fingers stiff on the keyboard of his _kokle_ as they pluck out the beat of a song that sings of spring, of summer and harvest. He is content to be here with the slate gray sky, with the heavy weight of the _kokle_, so he can play a song and feel for just a moment like time has stopped and he is the only one in the whole world.

It never lasts, but for the moment it is there Latvia cannot help but cling to that timelessness and forget about everything and anything 'til nothing matters but the song the _kokle _sings.

* * *

**Author's Note**

**Requested by someone on dA for the Make Me Suffer meme.**

**The _kokle_ is apparently a Latvia lute sort of thing. The earliest documents about it date back to the 15th century. There's videos of people playing it on Youtube.**

**All information on Latvia's history came from .**

**I have a really hard time personifying Latvia as wimpy after reading about his history - which includes being invaded by pretty much everyone in Europe - so I prefer to think of him as quiet - not timid, but just sorta sick of the world and wishing it would leave him alone.**

**To any Latvians who read this - I am so sorry to have screwed up everything about your culture so badly.**

**I hope you enjoyed the story. Please critique.**


	17. Dancing With Myself

The desert was, in his opinion, the ugliest part of America.

Now, he knew about the diverse wildlife and the delicate ecosystem and how everything was held in check, in balance, like the feather that Egyptian god used to weigh the dead's souls and how messing up just one thing sent everything else spiraling downhill. He knew it was a part of his legacy, part of the Wild West. Cowboys roamed the desert, chasing dreams across the red sands. Ladies had haughtily stalked down the streets of little nowhere towns, skirts held up daintedly out of the dirt.

But the desert was dry and the desert was endless. It was repetition of a boring song, a mixing of reds and oranges so close to each other in shade that they were nearly the same color anyway. The desert was bright blue skies hanging over dull dead dirt with fading flora and hiding fauna. It was cacti struggling for life off an inch or so of rain, coyotes looking to make a living off the remains of those animals stupid enough to wander during the daytime.

Alfred shades his eyes with his hand as he looks up from trying to fix his engine. Heat waves up off the endless black road, mirages giving the illusion of a possibility of water. Arthur glances up at him from fiddling with the engine on the other side of the car, choppy blonde hair plastered to his forehead by sweat. "See something particularly interesting?" His voice is just another pressing thing in the already oppressive atmosphere. He feels almost bad for thinking that, but it's hot out and he hates the heat, so he can think things now that'll regret once he cools down.

"Naw, not really" Alfred mutters, turning his gaze back to their mess of a car. He pours more oil in, then motions for Arthur to try turning the car on again.

The car sputters, sounding like she wants to give out again as she rattles back to life. Alfred grins and whoops as he throws himself into the driver's seat. Arthur looks pleased as he buckles himself into shotgun next to him, dragging his hand across his forehead to trail along the shiny sweat. "Hotter than hell out there," he mumbles, staring out the window.

"Not accordin' ta Dante, it's not," Alfred quips as he eases his old girl back onto the pathetic strip of asphalt that qualified for a highway in this hell scape. He feels Arthur's inquisitive, burning gaze fixing on him, so he keeps staring straight ahead because he doesn't want to see the shock in those green eyes. "Hell was cold. Movement, now tha' there was life, so it made sense that those who had sinned badly enough , well, they're prevented from ever movin' again. Second death; that's what it was. Being pinned in the crushing ice for the rest of eternity."

He sees a flash of black in the sky, like maybe a bird is moving out there. But Alfred doubts that anything would be stupid enough to willing go and endure that heat. The only reason he and Arthur are all the way out here was because Arthur's never seen the Grand Canyon before, and he'd volunteered to take him before his mind could catch up to his mouth. He'd grabbed him from a World Conference and they'd zipped westward with Yao screaming at the back of his car that if he didn't get his ass back there right that moment he was going to cancel all trading contracts with him.

He'd ignored him. His boss wasn't happy, but at least he'd bought the excuse that Alfred was trying to improve foreign relations with the United Kingdom.

"I..." Arthur trails off, seemingly trying to find the right words. He goes silent, then continues, "I had no idea you even knew who Dante was."

Alfred snorts as he pressed gently on the gas pedal, urging his old girl to speeds well above the limits posted. No one drives these roads enough to care, and the faster he goes, the faster he leaves behind all this dry depression. "No need tah sound so surprised, Artie. I'm not stupid and I can read real good."

"You're slipping. Your accent. Sounds more Southern than Western, though."

"Aw, shucks, sometimes they blend together so they're all the same thing anyway." He's doing this on purpose. The Southern drawl really pisses off Arthur, and it's funny to watch him redden as he struggles to understand what Alfred's spewing on about this time. Arthur can get what he's talking about when he has his Western accent on, but the thickness and the slurs of the South just confuse him. "But yeah, Dante."

He hears Arthur shifting around in his seat uncomfortably. He knows in a moment Arthur's be propping his elbow on the dashboard, resting his head on his fist – he's so predictable, so easy to read and understand. "I like his _Inferno_ best out of that trilogy."

"Me, I liked _Paradiso _most." Arthur snorts, a surprisingly inelegant thing for someone so graceful, and Alfred knows it's because Arthur is believing him to be shallow again, picking Heaven over Hell. "Naw, really! _Inferno _was too creepy, _Purgatory _too depressin'."

"Depressing," Arthur repeats. It's a statement when he says it – he hates asking questions; he prefers the sureness of facts over the uncertainty that a question brings.

He turns on the rattling AC to try and lower the temperature from unbearable to the point where it'll just boil their blood. "Well, lookit thisa way, Artie. Nothin'. That's what purgatory is – a whole lotta nothin', from now 'til forever. Rather have the hell scape or the eternal happiness with all my loved ones and whatnot rather than a whole lotta nothin'. Plus, yer neither good nor evil there, so what the hell are ya? Nothin'."

Arthur's messing with the window, rolling it down and back up with delicate flicks of his fingers pressing on the ancient controls. "You seem to like that word a lot right now?"

"Wha' now?"

"Nothing. You keep repeating it." Arthur sounds tired, sleepy. Makes sense, really. He usually starts the day with a cup of Earl Gray, but the hotel they stayed at didn't have any at the mediocre breakfast buffet and the glee Arthur takes in refusing to drink coffee borders on religious zealotry. Alfred's still riding the buzz of three cups with heavy cream and no sugar, so he'll putter along pretty well for a few more hours until he crashes – probably long enough to get them to where they're going, but if not, they don't have any real timeline for this trip so it's all good no matter what.

Alfred brushes his bangs out his face, squinting out into the bright light that's making the road dance a jig. The dry endless expanse of dreary dead dirt whizzes by lightning quick, but not fast enough to really escape it. "Purgatory – now, that'sa gotta be a desert right there," he says before he can stop himself.

Arthur shifts again. "Thought every inch of your land was, and I quote, 'far more gorgeous than England could ever hope to be'." He's being snippy, sarcastic, and that'll mean his eyes will be flashing with that green poison they only hold when he's busy being snarky.

"Sure it is. 'sept for the desert. Empty as hell and hotter than it." Arthur hums and falls silent, staring at the cacti whizzing by and the slow pace of dull lives march on. Alfred has no idea how close they are to the canyon, how far they still have to travel to get there, how long he has to stay in this endless desert, this purgatory.

He starts when Arthur mutters, "Thanks...for hauling me all the way out here, you arse. Even if you didn't ask my fucking permission before practically kidnapping me from the conference and I didn't get my damn tea this morning, this is...pretty nice." It's the most thanks he'll get from him, and the only reason he got in it in the first place is because Arthur's on the verge of falling asleep and leaving Alfred to face the drive all by his lonesome.

But it's good enough, and it's more thanks than Alfred's gotten from him in a long time. So he grins, taps his fingers on his steering wheel to the beat of a song he can't name and says, "No prob, partner."

Arthur drifts off soon after, quiet snores the soundtrack for the movie of their life – at least until Alfred leans over and jiggles the ancient radio to life. A Glee song starts to play – he's watched a few episodes of it so he could understand what people liked about it. He likes the music, even though the plot's too corny and cliché for him.

"Oh, there's nothing to lose and there's to prove, so I'll be dancing with myself." His fingers beat out the rhythm of the song, his voice picks out the lyrics, and he keeps heading for the horizon, trying to escape his personal purgatory with his Beatrice at his side.

* * *

**Author's Note**

**Anyway, for those who didn't get the Beatrice comment at the end, Beatrice was Dante's (the author of the Divine Comedy) love of his life, the one who was waiting for him in Paradise. Yeah...subtle shipping of USUK there (I made a clever!). So, implied romance, though nothing serious 'cause I hate writing outright fluff.**

I cannot really see Alfred loving his deserts as the other parts of his country. Too dry and lifeless. He seems like the type to need people around all the time.

And the Southern accent part - I have a British friend, and if there is one thing he hates in this life, it's Southern accents. He says he can't understand a word they're saying and the slurs are too thick. Don't mean to insult no one here; just repeating what he said.

Title's lame. Came from the song Dancing With Myself, sung by the character Artie in Season One. Really has no connection to the story as a whole. Yes, I watch Glee, but I think Rachel's an idiot and I really just like the music.  



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